


Saving Grace

by girlattherockshow



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, I rip my readers’ hearts out, Loki learns a lesson, Parent Loki (Marvel), Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Romance, Sexytimes, Thor likes to knock Loki around, smashing everyone’s feelings to the ground
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 19:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 93,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18745753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlattherockshow/pseuds/girlattherockshow
Summary: Loki is sent back to Midgard until he can understand how the actions of one man can have consequences that ripple beyond his intentions. He meets Grace, a single mother of a nearly-year old child with a dark past. Can he redeem himself in her eyes when she finds out how his actions caused her current pain? Post-Avengers, pre-Thor 2. Be advised there are triggers here.(please note: this fic originally published on Fanfiction.Net in 2014).





	1. Crashing Into You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all! This fic was originally published in 2014. At that time, I hadn't written fanfiction in over a decade, and I published the story without editing whatsoever (every chapter was a first draft). Since the publishing of that story, I've now gone on to write the sequel, and hope that it will be as beloved as this story was. It meant a great deal to me that people loved this story as much as they do, and did. At this time, I've been going back and making minor changes - nothing at all to content, simply fixing a typo here or a date there. The original story is almost 99% the same (I may have deleted a word here or there). My only reason for doing this is to make sure that the timing is consistent with the sequel's timeline, and to simply clean up some of the grammatical things that I wasn't as careful about back then. I hope that this is a story you can continue to go back to over and over again, and that you'll understand my desire to clean it up and make it as perfect as I can.
> 
> Song: Somewhere Out There by Our Lady Peace

The days were blending at this point. He had never been good at measuring time by Midgardian standards in the first place, and his skills hadn't improved even though he had been forced to adapt to it. His best estimate was a week, maybe two, since he was out of Asgard at the hand of his adoptive "father," Odin. Something, something, _redeem yourself,_ something, something,  _understand that the actions of one man can cause a ripple of consequence beyond your comprehension_ , et cetera. He hadn't paid much attention to anything Odin said since Odin informed him of his true heritage, his true...nature. Thor had also told him that, as part of this indignity, he would have to walk amongst the humans he had once tried to rule. As a result of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s meddling, no photographs of him had been published in any of the Midgardian news reports. So, no one would know who he was unless they had seen him in person at the time of the attack—and most of those individuals were dead. All he knew now was that, save for the ability to chill anything he touched, at will, and the inability to suffer fatal injury, he could not perform any feat of magic on Midgard. He had been stripped of all his other magical capabilities when he had been cast out. Apparently, it was widely believed he was untrustworthy. He could not imagine why that would be the case.

Given that he had very little else to amuse himself, he spent most of his time wandering through what was called Central Park. He hated spending any more time than he had to in the dreadful cinder block walled eight-by-twelve room at a dingy, disgusting boarding house where he had been sleeping since he had descended to Earth. The park had changed little since the last time he had been here (which, according to what he had read in the newspapers, had been just a bit more than a year ago) but even he had to admit that it was a lovely place in which to lose oneself. He could, at the very least, forget where he was and why he was there. Perhaps in time he could conjure a plan to return to Asgard and seek revenge against his "brother" for trading him in exchange for these mortals. For now, however, he simply sought solace in solitude, walking in the early evening twilight of late autumn. The leaves were just beginning to fall off the trees around him, and they crunched beneath his boots as he strode along the concrete path, heading nowhere in particular.

As he turned a sharp corner passing near a large oak tree, lost in thoughts of ways he could torture Thor — even, perhaps, by paying that overdue visit to Jane Foster, now that he was stuck here anyway — he suddenly felt the weight of another being bounce off his body. The man, who was wearing an extraordinarily large hoodie, dark gloves, and dark pants, seemed to flail a bit, then crashed directly onto his backside, bouncing off Loki as though he had just walked into an invisible force field. As the man tried to steady himself at the same time as he remained slightly panic-stricken, Loki glared down at him, unamused.

"Could you possibly watch where you are walking, you insufferable beast?" Loki huffed, clearly offended at being touched by this stranger. "Is there not enough room in this park for you to avoid disturbing others with your presence?"

The man was clearly not expecting to run directly into a six-foot-tall frost giant, even though he had no idea that was who—what—he was dealing with. When he scrambled to his feet, he took off running in the other direction—and left behind a small satchel embroidered with the initials "GL." Loki picked up the satchel and ran his fingers over the embroidery. It was nothing fancy, certainly nothing regal. He opened the bag to look for currency—perhaps there might be enough to purchase a room at a slightly nicer inn. Instead, he found what he had recently learned to be something called an iPhone (apparently a type of messenger system), a small card with the words, "Bellevue Hospital Sexual Assault Response Team SAFE Center" along with a ten digit number on it, and a small photograph of an infant Midgardian with bright red hair.

Just as quickly as the man had run off, another figure appeared out of the growing darkness, smaller this time, and more aware of her surroundings. He stared at her with his head held high, an eyebrow cocked, daring her to speak with each movement she made in his direction. As she came closer, he noticed she had her eyes momentarily on the bag he held, then back to his eyes, and one hand on a small container with what he could see were the letters "PEPP" and "SPRAY" on the side. She fingered this container nervously, and he could see she was crying.

"Oh my God, you stopped him! I was chasing him and I couldn't keep up, but if I didn't get my bag back, I would lose my phone, and if someone has my phone, they have every way in the world to get into my life, and oh my God, you stopped him, how can I—"

Loki rolled his eyes and held up a hand in front of her, palm out. "Woman, please. I have no time or care for your troubles. Here is your satchel." He extended the bag to her, which she took from him gingerly. "I shall take my leave now." He turned on his heel.

"Wait!" she said.

He wasn't quite sure why he stopped, as he truly did not care to hear what she had to say. But for whatever silly reason, he decided to indulge her. Besides, it was this or the inn. He turned back. "Well," he said impatiently, arms at his sides, voice as cool as his own skin, "what is it, then?"

"I—I just—I need to do something to repay you. You have no idea how difficult my life would be if you hadn't done what you just did. How long have you been walking? You must be cold—and I could use a cup of hot chocolate. Would you please let me buy you one?"

It had been a long time since had had something warm to drink that did not taste like one of Thor's post-training rags (he knew the taste well, as had been the result of a few ill-advised pranks Thor and the Warriors Three had thought funny in their youths, and made a mental note to pay them back in spades upon his return). It was getting colder and darker. And, again, it was this or the inn.

"As you wish," he sighed, slightly put off by the whole idea, but willing to play along for now. Perhaps he would find amusement— something he was sorely in need of.

"Fantastic! We can go to the City Bakery on Fifth. It's kind of far away, but sooooo worth it." The way she dragged out the word "so" was odd to Loki, but surprisingly, it piqued his interest. Her accent was very much the aged New York to which he had become accustomed, but she spoke with a certain youth that he did not expect from a woman he suspected to be in her early thirties. Yes, on this night, at least he would be entertained.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Luke." This was the name he had been told to use while in banishment. In fact, he could not even speak his real name – Odin had managed to put a spell on him so that he could not speak his name even if he wanted to. Allegedly it was for his own protection, but he suspected it was so he could not obtain the glory to which he was entitled.

"Well, Luke, it's nice to meet you." She slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and tossed her chestnut hair back, extending her right hand in front of her. He took it lightly, as if she were contagious. "I'm Grace."


	2. Candy Coated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Enchanted" by Taylor Swift

"Table for two, please," Grace said to the small, dark-skinned man standing behind the podium just inside the entrance to the bakery. Loki found himself in dim lighting, surrounded by the smell of freshly baked bread. It was not unpleasant. The room was painted a warm cream, and there were fabric-covered seats lining the walls with metal tables in front of them. Silver chairs sat opposite the fabric seats, and each table had a small candle in the center. The man nodded, picked up two menus, and walked them toward a small table toward the back of the restaurant.

She stepped in front of him, walking briskly by, brushing lightly against the forest green cotton pullover framing his chest. His initial reaction was one of annoyance bordering on anger; who was this mortal peasant—a WOMAN, no less—to think she could walk ahead of a man born to be a king? But then, looking down at his clothing—simple Midgardian garments he had been sent with, courtesy of Thor's companion, Jane, no doubt—he wouldn't believe he was royalty if he didn't know better.

He sighed dramatically, but she didn't hear him. She was already halfway to the table, still hanging tightly to her bag with one leather-gloved hand and loosening her scarf with the other. He followed her and waited for her to be seated before sitting down himself. He may have been a prince, but he was also, in some respects, still a gentleman. He blamed his adoptive mother for that. He resented it because he was in no mood to be a gentleman right now. He wasn't even truly sure what he was doing here—perhaps he should have simply stayed the course on his walk through the park...and yet, as Grace pulled her shoulder-length hair into a low, loose tie at the base of her neck, he noticed that her skin was almost as pale as his (or, at least, as pale as his skin appeared) and found himself wondering if it was as cold.

After they had ordered and received two mugs of what Grace described as the restaurant's "famous" hot chocolate, there was an uncomfortable silence. Although she had insisted that Loki join her for this outing, she now seemed unsure of what to say. Loki, for his part, was not going to initiate conversation. What could he possibly have in common with this mortal in the first place, and in the second, why would he care to find out? She was here to amuse him, not the other way around. A few moments passed, and Grace noticed she was still wearing her gloves. She removed them and placed them in the bag she had removed from across her shoulder and laid on the table next to the wall.

"I still can't thank you enough for stopping that asshole," she finally said. "Really. You have no idea."

"It was nothing," he replied. "It was not even intentional. He simply ran into me."

"But you must have done SOMETHING. The guy had a gun, for God's sake."  _God's sake_. He smirked at the irony.

"I did nothing. He ran into me, fell, and then ran away." He hesitated, and then took a small sip of the dark, thick liquid in front of him. It filled his icy body with something that felt almost comforting, a warmth that filled his throat and spread to his toes. He hesitated, and then said, "I...enjoy this."

Her brow furrowed for just a second, clearly taken aback by his choice of phrase. "Uh, I'm glad?" She smiled slightly and took a sip from her own mug. "If you don't mind me saying, you look like you needed it."

At this, he was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"I don't mean to be mean, it's just..." she trailed off, considering her words carefully, chewing her bottom lip. "You look...tired. And not many people are just wandering around the park at night. Homeless people, mostly. So, you know, it really was the least I could do, getting you something warm to drink."

"Homeless?" Loki replied, appalled that she would think he was some vagabond, begging for handouts on the street like so many he had seen in his short time here. "I am not—"

"Oh my God," she interrupted, her eyes widening. At this, he noted, they had shifted color from a steely gray to almost a bright blue.  _How curious_ , he thought. "I am so sorry. I swear. Sometimes my mouth just...goes. I didn't mean to imply—I mean, you're not?"

He found himself again keeping his emotions carefully checked; if he was not careful, he knew, he could revert to his frost giant form and, while he did not particularly care whether the humans were frightened of him—in fact, he might prefer it—above all else, he wished to return to Asgard and wreaking any sort of havoc right now would only turn that plan on its head. Lost in this thought, he realized Grace was staring at him, still wide-eyed, obviously afraid, rightfully, that she had offended him.

"I most certainly am not homeless," he replied, with an eerie calm in his voice. "I simply...have been temporarily displaced." He shifted slightly in his seat, eyes cast to the side, lips pursed.

Her face relaxed, and she tilted her head. A section of her hair came loose, falling into her eyes. She brushed it back behind her ear, to no avail. "I'm...sorry. I really didn't mean to offend you. You just seemed a little lost, that's all." She paused, considering whether to go on. "So...Luke...where are you from, originally?"

He did not know how to answer this question. "I...am from outside this country." It wasn't exactly a lie, not that that would have mattered coming from the God of both Mischief and Lies.

"I kind of figured. Your accent sounds kind of British, but not really. I can't place it."

"I am not surprised." He grew weary of this conversation, and it showed in his response. The truth was that he was simply weary in general but also weary of answering questions. Always, always answering questions. Questions from S.H.I.E.L.D. when they held him, questions from Odin upon his return, questions from Thor about their "brotherhood." He was so tired of being observed as one might observe a wild animal. She seemed to sense the darkness growing around him, because she suddenly stood, gathering her belongings hastily.

"Well, Luke. Thank you again for your help today. Really, I don't know what I would have done—my phone was in my purse, and, well, as you can imagine, you lose your phone and whoever finds it basically has access to your life. Plus, it's a pain in the ass to get a new one, so, you know. Like I said. Thanks." She smiled yet avoided eye contact, pulling her peacoat over her shoulders.

He stood, perplexed by her hastiness. As insistent as she had been to get him here, she was now dashing off just as quickly. "Again. I did nothing."

She reached into her bag and pulled out Midgardian currency, leaving it on the table. "Whatever you say," she replied, her voice not quite as steady as it had been. "I still appreciate it."

They walked to the door together, Loki again following her, but this time, he didn't feel the rush of anger surge when she instinctively led the way. He was more curious, studying her the same way he had just felt resentful for others studying him. He wondered if perhaps she could feel the rage boiling quietly within him and had wisely decided to exit before she came too close to saying the wrong word at the wrong time. Or perhaps she, too, was weary.

As they exited the building, the cold night air hit her like an ice pick to the face. "Gosh, it's freezing. How are you out here without a proper coat?"

He suppressed another smirk. "Where I am from, this weather is considered temperate." As soon as he spoke the words, he suddenly realized that he was becoming entirely too familiar with this woman. "But my troubles are not your concern. I shall take my leave." He found himself bowing his head to her, but before he could lift his head back up, she had turned and headed the opposite direction from him, without so much as a goodbye.


	3. Crosswalks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Dangerous by Michael Jackson

Occasionally, on his excursions, Loki would venture outside Central Park and simply wander through the streets of the city he had nearly destroyed. Much as he disliked being among humans, he found solace in the ability to walk undisturbed, no one caring who he was or why he was there. No one asked anything of him, and no one cared to know him. It was a small beacon in the bleak prognosis of his future. Despite his quest for power, he had, admittedly, failed to understand that with power comes the loss of anonymity—the loss of his ability to just be alone in his thoughts. Even if he had claimed his throne, someone would always need something, want something, seek answers which he may or may not have the time or patience to give.  _Still,_  he thought,  _I deserved that throne_.  _My birthright is to rule._ In the absence of that, revenge would have to do.

He pulled his black overcoat tighter around him. Although the cold still did not affect him, the Midgardian girl's words to him last week about not wearing a coat made him realize that he should probably try to at least blend in while he was stuck here. Since most humans wore heavy coats during the colder months, he had procured one himself from a local charity store recommended to him by one of the other boarders at the rooming house.  _Sooner or later, I will have to find a way to obtain more currency,_ he thought.  _If I am to be kept here, I should at least be in more comfortable surroundings._

The afternoon was bright and blue, crisp as a green apple. He understood autumn in this city to be a popular time for visitors, and he supposed he could understand why. The drop in temperature lessened the oppressive humidity of summer, bringing in a refreshing wind with it, the leaves on the trees starting to turn glorious shades of red and gold, similar to the Asgardian skies if you looked far enough out. On most afternoons that looked like this, you could have found Loki sitting alone under one of his favorite hidden spots on the far-off hills, away from Thor and his warrior friends. He would settle beneath the shade of a willow and fall into one of the books from his vast collection. Thor would chide him when he came back at an invariably late hour, saying he should have been practicing his weapons skills. Thor never did seem to grasp, not since they were children, that no matter what Loki did, he would never have measured up to any of Asgard's standards for leadership. No matter that he was truly the one who had the mental capacity to lead with dignity and intellectual dexterity, if he could not swing a hammer, he would never be considered worthy. So, instead, he practiced his energies elsewhere and educated himself beyond any level Thor could have hoped to achieve, in the hopes that someday, he could take a crown by sheer brilliance. Now, it seemed, that plan was moot.

Instead, on this afternoon, he wasn't headed to any particular destination, particularly not a tree. He did have it in the back of his mind that he should find the location of that bakery with the delicious warm chocolate beverage. Not that he would have any means to pay for it, but perhaps he could find another human woman and turn on the charm for which he was so famous. He found it ironic: his birthright was a throne, and yet here he was, trying to figure out a way to pay for goods. He could not stomach the thought of ending up the beggar the human woman—Grace, was it?—had suggested him to be. And why was he thinking so hard about what she had thought of him? The opinion of a mere mortal made no difference to his path in life. He would not become a peasant, no matter what Odin thought his punishment should be.

Shrugging this horrid thought off his broad shoulders, he turned down Fifth Avenue, just outside the park borders. He had never been on this side of the park's edge but had managed to wind up here in his absent-minded journey through the crowded streets. He stopped to take in his surroundings, to try and figure out where he was so he could figure out how to return from whence he came.

Suddenly, he found himself standing outside not the tallest, but certainly the most impressive, building he had seen in his short time here. In fact, as he gazed at the rest of the wide street across from him, he realized all the buildings were impressive. The one he was looking at was made with creamy marble and stone, with pillars and impressive steps leading to its gargantuan doorways. To his right was a building more modern and roundish, and to his left was another stone building but much less decorative than the one in front of him. He was momentarily impressed by this human creation. It was, dare he say, quite beautiful. Somewhat against his will, he found himself curious. Without even thinking about it consciously, he walked to the crosswalk and stood in the crowd awaiting the change of the traffic light. Perhaps he could go explore the contents of the building, or merely the building itself, for it was worth looking at on its own.

The light changed. The crowds on either side of the street swarmed toward each other like competing waves of the sea. He was doing his best to avoid making contact with anyone this time. It was bad enough the man who had collided with him in the park the other night had nearly cracked the pavement as a result of the force of bouncing off a demigod. But just as he had nearly reached the opposite side, mere steps from his intended destination, a shoulder slammed against his forearm, hard, then a woman gasped and let out a shrill shriek of pain. Though his initial impulse was to simply continue walking, as he had very little concern for whoever had had the misfortune to get in his way, he stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the strong, almost melodic voice behind him:

"You asshole, why don't you watch where you're going? And don't you think it's rude not to apologize when you HIT SOMEONE?"

It couldn't be. This city was too large, and they were miles from where they'd run into each other last time. Perhaps if he did not turn around, she would not be there. Yet, his mischievous side would not allow him NOT to turn around and at least see if his ears deceived him. He felt as he did when Laufey had insulted Thor as Thor had been walking away from their initial confrontation all those years ago:  _Damn._

When he turned, his eyes immediately met hers, and he took in their color, bright as the blue sky above them. Grace's alabaster face contorted into a look that was part fear, part shock, part fascination. "Luke? Is that you?"

Loki bowed his head in acknowledgment, but immediately chided himself, realizing that given her question, he should have feigned stupidity and pretended otherwise. Suddenly, the cars at the intersection began blowing their horns; the light had changed. Instead of heading off in the direction she had originally been walking—away from him—he saw her approaching him.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to be such a bitch, but, well—did you not realize you hit me or something? I don't know about you, but my arm is SORE." She rubbed the spot on her shoulder that had hit Loki's forearm. He wasn't hurt in the slightest, but, in the interest of blending in—that was his immediate goal, was it not?—he rubbed gingerly at the approximate spot on his upper arm where her shoulder reached.

"Why—I suppose a little, yes. I regret it."

She noticed he did not apologize for hurting her but paid it little attention. "So this is weird, right? I mean, what are the odds? Then again, they say New York is smaller than it looks. So, I suppose the odds could be good."

Before Loki realized it, they were both standing on the sidewalk. "The coincidence does indeed strike me as curious." At first, he thought this to be a falsehood, because he realized they were near the park, where they had first met. But, upon reflection, he was not lying. It did strike him as a bit bizarre that, of all the places and all the people, he ran into this same Midgardian woman, on a different day, at a different time, near the opposite end of the enormous park from where they had first encountered one another. He hated to admit this. He did not want to be distracted from revenge by anything other than what he deliberately chose as a distraction. More than anything, he longed to get away from this woman. And yet, he found himself standing there, not saying anything, but simply watching her eyes. They had returned to what he now understood to be their normal gray color, but they were still affixed to his own.

"So," Grace said, zooming right along in the conversation as fast as the cars on the street. "Where are you headed?"

He hesitated. He did not want company, particularly hers. But, then again, she probably would just follow him anyway, so he came forth with it. "I was going to visit this...building."

"You mean The Met?" She tilted her head toward the impressive building with the columns and impressive stone. "It really is stunning. Both inside and out. People are so interested in the art inside that they don't appreciate the architecture outside. Have you ever been?"

"No," he replied.

"Oh! Well, good thing we ran into each other, then. I have a membership, thanks to my boss. And I just so happen to have two membership cards because it's a family plan. So, you can be my plus-one." Loki had no idea what she was talking about, but from what he could assume, this museum required money to enter it, and she was offering to take him with her for free.

"But weren't you on your way somewhere?" He remembered she had been walking in the opposite direction when she had run into him.

"Oh, I was just on my way home. I was working this morning, but I finished early. I was going to go to the gym. Let me make a quick call, and I'd be happy to spend a couple hours wandering around the museum. It'll be a nice break, honestly." She paused, seeming to remember his last few moments with her from the night at the restaurant, where he had turned dark and nearly sinister. "That is, if you don't mind the company. I don't want to intrude if you wanted to be alone."

Everything in Loki wanted to say,  _yes, please, go away, and if you ever see me on the street again, do not approach me, do not talk to me, I am evil, and you should be terrified of me._  He had tried to destroy everything she seemed to love about this city, after all. But he found himself unable to speak these words, despite his deepest desire to do exactly that. It was as if his tongue had been tied, unable to be truly menacing. He choked on his next words. "I should not mind at all, Lady Grace."

At this, she laughed. "Lady Grace?" she repeated, not quite mockingly. "Please. Just Grace. I'm not even sure just my name will sound casual enough in your accent." She pulled her phone from the purse she held, the same one he had unwittingly retrieved for her, and held up her index finger in front of her while dialing a number. "Hang on one sec, I'm just going to call my father and let him know. Be right back."

She stepped a few paces down the street, her hair blowing in the breeze around her. If he had wanted to simply leave without her, he could have at that moment. She had her back to him, and he could have slinked off in silence with Grace none the wiser. But he could not force his body to move. Instead, he felt his green eyes were glued to her, once again studying carefully, as if memorizing her features for some sort of test later. Besides her hair fluttering around her, he noticed for the first time what she was wearing and wondered what kind of profession she was employed in. She wore an oversized knitted sweater with some sort of shirt underneath it which peeked out at the shoulders. Her pants were made of a sort of thick dark blue cloth, and they clung tightly to the curves of her legs until they were swallowed at the knees by black, flat boots. Besides that, she wore the same scarf and gloves from the other night but did not wear her overcoat as she had the night before. He did not miss the irony that he had heeded her advice to obtain a coat for the cold weather despite his lack of need for one and she now elected not to wear one despite her obvious human need for it.

Meanwhile, Grace had noticed the same fact but found it slightly terrifying. All the good sense in the world told her she should not be so trusting—after all, the man had not been caught yet. She also didn't know what he looked like. She knew nothing except that he was still out there. And at this point, not only had she run into Luke in two different places at two different times, but he seemed to take a slight interest in what she said—to the point that he heeded her advice to get a coat for the weather even though he said he was from a place where this weather was normal and did not affect him. That alone should have been a red flag. Perhaps he was stalking her. Perhaps that fear is what had led her to run off the other night when he had spoken so darkly to her. And yet, she could not imagine that Luke, with his soft green eyes and wordless, gentle nods and Lady Grace-ing, could have possibly posed her any threat. Wouldn't she have some sense of it by now? And wouldn't he have come after her closer to home if he truly were stalking her? He would have no reason to know she would be here today, after all. She hadn't even planned to be here herself.

She returned to him after finishing her phone call. "All set to see some art?"

Once again, a wordless head bow from Loki. Instinctively, once again, she led the way down the street to the museum, talking a mile a minute, with him following half a step behind her, finding it utterly bizarre that he could not find it in him to be as angry as he wanted to be.


	4. A Roof With A View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Butterflies by Michael Jackson

"Come on, this is the best part, and we're lucky we came today because they're going to be closing it for the season soon!" Grace excitedly ran toward the lift as if she was a small child, and Loki was surprised she didn't tug on his sleeve to make him move faster. He walked as quickly as his legs could carry him, but he was actually growing tired after spending the last few hours devouring only some of what this gigantic museum had to offer. There was no way they would have been able to take it all in during the course of one day. By his estimation, they had barely covered half of it if that. And he had no idea where Grace was taking him now, but she certainly seemed excited over it. She pushed a button and they were headed upward.

"I still can't believe you've never been to this museum, and when you see what I'm about to show you, you'll be kicking yourself." He very much doubted that, but he had to admit, the collection of art he had seen today was striking, even by human standards. "And if you like the park," she continued, as the doors opened, "then you'll love this."

"My, my." Loki took a few more steps forward and turned slowly in a circle. Around him were hedges and foliage trimmed neatly framing the edges of the roof, trellises lining the inner portion. That wasn't the impressive part, though; directly in front of him laid a full panoramic view of the City itself, its lights gently beginning to flicker against the salmon-colored sky. For a fleeting moment, he imagined Heimdall gazing down upon the worlds beneath, and wondered if he was as taken with this sight as Loki found himself. He realized he was holding his breath as if the image laid in front of him would disappear if he so much as exhaled. Turning around, he saw her standing behind him (probably the first time that had happened since he had first met her), arms folded satisfactorily across her chest, a smile touched with a hint of smugness across her pink lips.

"Pleased with yourself, are you?" he muttered.

At this, Grace's smile only became wider. "Actually, yes. This is one of my absolute favorite places in the City. I mean, there are a lot of beautiful places here, but honestly, look at that VIEW. Have you ever seen anything like it?"

His shoulders hunched. Although he had seen Asgard's expansive views of the universe, and so by comparison this sight should not have impressed him so, the fact remained that this one in particular was, quite simply, captivating. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since he was permitted to gaze upon Asgard or any other otherworldly city for that matter, that he had begun to forget what those views looked like. But, of course, he could not tell Grace any of this. "I have seen nothing like this."

Again, it was not quite a lie. Asgard did not have quite so much of nature laid out in front of it, as the city took up most of the view from even the highest portion of the castle. Loki had managed to find hidden spots in which to read and study and practice his magic, far from the city, but he had to travel far and away to get to them. Even then, he could not see them from the castle. As he surveyed Central Park beneath the railing of the rooftop, he was astounded. Asgard and New York had many things in common: the population, the bustle, the fierceness of its inhabitants. Even the buildings seemed to shine in the same way against the lights of the universe.

But there were differences so stark that it reminded him of the separation between the worlds: that there was so much quiet green space to enjoy, that so many of New York's people seemed to enjoy taking time out to enjoy it, and that there were places like this rooftop—so unlike the places and people he had grown up with. No one in Asgard would think to create buildings dedicated to arts such as the one on top of which he and Grace were currently standing. Physical strength and weapons training were such pervasive parts of life that education, culture, books, artistry—all were overlooked. His love for such things had always separated him from whom he believed were his people. At this moment, drinking in his surroundings, Loki felt, for the first time, like perhaps he belonged somewhere.

It was then that he noticed Grace had approached the edge of the building as well and was standing next to him, the top of her head reaching the top of his shoulder. She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, her eyes absently gazing out over the tops of the trees. They had spent the last three hours discussing ancient Greek and Roman statues, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the Costume Institute (where Grace had squealed several times over the work of prominent fashion designers), and—this had been Loki's favorite, admittedly—visiting the arms and armor wing, where he had, it seemed, impressed Grace with his knowledge of medieval weaponry.

Still, despite their lengthy discussion of art, they had not spoken at length of any matters of personal import. Not that he was complaining, as he had little use for the plights of others. But he found it odd that this woman would spend so much time with him and yet not ask him any questions about himself. Perhaps she had learned the other night that he was not one to give up personal information. He glanced down past his shoulder at her, not moving his head lest she notice him staring. Her hair blew furiously around her face, as the wind had picked up at this altitude. She didn't seem to notice, or she didn't care.

He cleared his throat. "How long have you lived in this city?"

Grace jumped as if she did not remember she was standing next to him. "Excuse me?"

"You asked me the other day if I was from here, and I answered you. So now I am asking you a similar question. How long have you resided here?"

She looked visibly more relaxed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just a little inside my head, I guess. Anyway. I've lived here my whole life. But I don't actually live in Manhattan, I just work here. I live in Brooklyn."

He reflexively cocked an eyebrow. "I do not believe I have ever been to Brooklyn. Is it far?"

Grace threw her head back and laughed. "Wow, you really haven't been here long, have you? Brooklyn is south of here—it's a bitch of a commute, but I can't beat the rent. My father is on the board of a housing co-op so I pretty much live rent-free. If I lived in the City, I'd be paying, like, $2000 a month to live in a closet."

He presumed this to be a large amount of money. Seems relocating from the boarding house will be more difficult than I expected.

"I actually used to live in the City, until the whole attack by that weirdo alien guy and his little helpers."

At this, his head jerked back up and he stared straight ahead. Had she recognized him? He knew people had seen him the day of the attack, but surely the world could not be that coincidental. He didn't really want to know the answer to his next question, but he had to ask. He feigned stupidity as if there was anyone in the world who did not know exactly what had happened in New York City just over a year ago.

"Did you...see this...alien?"

"No, not that day. I'd think I'd remember it if I had, anyway. Actually," she inhaled deeply. "At the time, I lived downtown. I didn't want to take advantage of my Dad's connections. But after the attack, well, let's just say Brooklyn seemed safer."

Loki breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She had not seen him. If she had, he wasn't quite sure what he would have done. But then, if she had recognized him, surely it would have dawned on her sooner than this. It was dark now; the stars were twinkling in the sky through the thin layer of cloud cover moving in over the harbor. In the distance, he could hear the horn of a ferry blow.

She seemed to suddenly realize how chilly it was becoming. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. "I need to be going, Luke. I told my Dad I'd be by his place, like, an hour ago..." she trailed off, expectant, though Loki wasn't quite sure of what. When he failed to respond, she looped her bag across her body. "Okay, then. Well, I really hope you had fun today. I did. I forgot how much I missed this place. I don't get down here often enough. Maybe we'll run into each other again."

She was halfway to the lift when he felt himself speaking. It was involuntary, he swore it. Certainly, he never would have voluntarily said what he said in that next moment. And yet, there it was, slipping off his tongue like water down a spout. "I would like that."

She spun around and smiled at him, a smile so blindingly white that he could see despite the dark cloak of night surrounding them. "Really? Well, what about Tuesday? I work until four o'clock, but I can be available after that."

Loki considered this. He had no idea what he would even say to her for the several hours he assumed they would be spending together. The museum today had given them topics of conversation that were ready-made; it was easy for Loki to discuss art, after all. But what would he and this woman have in common? But then, it was the chance to escape the hellish boarding house, and to enjoy a hot meal. While he did not necessarily require nourishment to survive, he did so enjoy the comforts of food and drink. "Tuesday shall be fine. Where shall we meet?"

"Would you like to have dinner and take a walk in the park? I could show you Strawberry Fields."

"That should do well." He stood with his arms behind his back, stick straight, uncomfortable, watching her carefully for any reaction.  _At least,_ he thought,  _she isn't fleeing the building as she did last week._  It was only then that he realized that he actually cared whether or not that happened.

* * *

Grace turned back toward the elevator and pushed the button to call it. As she waited, she became aware that Luke was staring at her. She could feel his emerald eyes boring into her back as if waiting for her to turn back around. It was almost as if he could look through her and see her heart beating through her skin, which felt hot and cold at the same time. Maybe she was getting sick. It was awfully cold out, and she hadn't worn a coat today. She had been planning on being home before the temperature dropped this low.

As she stepped into the elevator, it suddenly occurred to her that he had not actually requested to see her; rather, she had suggested that they might see one another again and he had simply said that he would like that. She had been the one to suggest a definite time and day. Again, she kicked herself. She shouldn't be so trusting so soon. Particularly not with all the...complications involved. Two years ago, she would have been dewy-eyed and eager to explore the spark that could exist between herself and Luke if she would allow it. But now, she had already lost too much and had too much left to lose.

She would have dinner with him, take the walk, and then end this before it started.


	5. Chopsticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Step With Me by MIKA

"This place is going to blow your mind," Grace said as she strode into Nobu Fifty Seven, the restaurant to which they had taken a long, slow walk after meeting at the museum. Grace had chattered about the food they were about to consume. Apparently, humans considered raw fish a delicacy. He supposed he could stomach it—after all, he was a demigod. It had occurred to him that, after Grace had left the rooftop the Saturday prior, they had not arranged a meeting location for their outing. He also had no way to contact her. At first, he believed, this was a blessing. He had the perfect out. Nevertheless, on Tuesday, at five in the afternoon, he found himself walking toward the same place he had last seen her—the museum on the opposite side of the park. Dressed in more clothes that had been passed along to him from Thor and Jane—this time, a crimson long-sleeved t-shirt, black slacks, dress shoes, and his recently procured overcoat—he could pass for a native New Yorker. The weather was colder tonight than it had been, so he had added a thick, forest green scarf to his ensemble. He pulled it tighter around him, smoothing it down into the breast of his coat as he walked.

 _This is madness_ , he thought, approaching the intersection where they had last met. Still, he felt a pull toward this place that he could not ignore. It was as if a voice had been nagging him most of the day, and he knew himself well enough to know that it would continue to nag him until he satisfied it by showing it that there was no weight to its words.  _There is no way she will come._  However, when he stopped at the intersection of East 82nd Street and Museum Mile and gazed across the crosswalk to the traffic light, to his utter amazement, there she was, looking around as expectant as he had been un-expectant.

Grace had her hair pulled back into a low, loose braid that draped casually over her left shoulder. Her creamy white skin offset against a black peacoat, which fell to her knees over shockingly pink tights and the same black boots from the other day. Loki stared at her. She had not seen him yet. He still had time to turn and walk away, but found himself plastered to the spot, disbelieving his own eyes. Then she had turned her gaze upon him and lit up like a fire in a hearth, causing an involuntary shiver to run through his spine.

Before he knew what was happening, he found himself being ushered past several tables full of people into a dimly lit room with wave-like walls that seemed to undulate before his eyes in a very intricate design. A bar stretched across the left side of the room, made of polished cherry wood, behind which rose several columns of barrels, which reached a ceiling draped with chandeliers made of silver shells. The waiter took them to a table made of what appeared to be the same wood as the bar, and Loki waited until Grace sat before settling himself into the cushioned chair.

"I have never had—what is it called again?"

She laughed the same throaty laugh that he had now come to know as normal. "Sushi! You've never had sushi? Great, then I get to pop your cherry."

"Pop...my cherry." It came out as more of a statement when it was intended as a question, but he realized that it was probably better to pretend to understand Midgardian slang terms than to ask for clarification.

Either way, she did not seem to take notice of his confusion. She opened her menu, and he followed suit. "Okay, so, here's the deal. I'm going to make some recommendations, and you should probably follow them, because most people, if you start them off with something ridiculous like Unagi, they get a bad taste about sushi overall and never go back. Make sense?"

It didn't. On top of which, he didn't particularly like taking orders from a woman and a Midgardian woman at that. Nevertheless, he was determined to do what he had to so that he could con his way back to Asgard. If that included debasing himself in this manner, he supposed it was a means to a worthwhile end. He smiled, a tortured smile, prepared to spew forth acquiescence to move things along. But instead he heard himself say, "I'm not sure what you mean."

 _What in the name of Laufey's frozen testicles just happened?_  he thought.

Grace was undeterred. "Let me put it another way. If you want to introduce a little kid to dogs and you start with a big dog like a Great Dane, the dog will probably bark and be loud and overbearing and the kid is probably going to freak out and cry and hate dogs forever. On the other hand, if you start the kid with, say, a Beagle or a Dachshund, something small that the kid feels like he can easily handle, he might be better with bigger dogs later. Does that make more sense?"

"Indeed," he replied, and then, cautiously, continued. "So, then, what is the 'Beagle' of the sushi world?"

"Did you just make a joke?" She looked positively dumbfounded at the prospect. Head down, eyes still on his menu, black hair falling over his cheeks, the faintest hint of a smile crossed Loki's lips.

His voice was liquid. "Does it surprise you that I, too, can be a sociable creature?"

She hesitated, considering her response carefully. Recognizing her silence, his eyes lifted, piercing her through his thin black brows.

"I...think you should order the spicy bigeye tuna and the California roll."

* * *

"So that's how I ended up working in a million-dollar criminal defense firm with just a bachelor's degree and a modicum of skill." Grace took another sip of her plum wine, having just finished telling Loki her story of sailing through college with no discernible direction before finding her calling after helping a friend accused of possession of a small amount of an illegal, mind-altering substance. As he was apparently without familial support, something Loki could appreciate, Grace had assisted him in finding legal representation and had stayed involved with the case, so much so that she was able to spot what she described as a "technicality in the search" of her friend's residence, which led to the closing of the case. The lawyer was impressed enough by her mastery of Midgardian law that he recommended her for a position as an assistant with his law firm, which is where she had been for the last five years. She had briefly debated attending law school but decided that she much preferred assisting lawyers to being one.

"And you are how old?"

"Twenty-eight."

"You have accomplished much in your short span of years," he observed.

She shook her head. "You could say that, but it has little to do with my career. Life never really goes the way you expect it. I'm just thankful to be alive after what happened here last year."

He winced and looked for a change of subject. Thankfully, at just that moment, their sushi arrived. Grace had ordered salmon egg and soft-shell crab, rolled in white rice and wrapped in seaweed. Loki had taken her advice and ordered the spicy tuna, and something called the California roll, which contained crab, cucumber, and avocado. It then dawned on him that there were no eating utensils on the table. All he could see was a small paper-wrapped packet with two wooden sticks in it. He removed the sticks but was at a loss for where to go from here. He felt like an imbecile, and he did not like it one bit. He was not used to feeling stupid. The last time he felt like this was when Thor had taken him back to Asgard, muzzled. His flesh burned with a heat that did not come naturally to him then, and the feeling returned to him now. He sat with his arms stiffly at his sides, looking furiously back and forth from the sticks to his plate.

As if she recognized that he might need some assistance, having never had sushi, she pushed her chair back and crossed to his side of the table. Before he could stop her, or so much as open his mouth to try, she was at his side, behind him, leaning so close that he could inhale her. He dared not move, for he had no way of knowing what his reaction might be if he did. He had not been this close to a woman—except perhaps for Sif, who hardly counted as a woman—in many, many years. The fact that he may have once nearly annihilated this woman was also not lost on him. He stared straight ahead, focused on keeping his emotions pressed down into the deepest pit of his stomach, even more than he usually had to, for he feared if he lost control of himself even for a moment...

"Holy crap, you're freezing!" Her voice was nearly lost on him, as his eyes focused squarely on the small, pale hand taking his. Her plaited hair brushed his shoulder as she leaned forward, twisted his fingers with both her hands, and placed the wooden sticks in them so that he held them just so. He kept his eyes focused on their hands, watching them carefully as she moved his fingers with her own. "Sushi lesson two: chopstick use. Now, you move this one like this," she instructed, showing him how to wiggle the stick held between his thumb and index finger, "and then you keep the other one still. And that's how you pick up the pieces."

Suddenly, Loki had the urge to look at her, closer than he had been able to see her since they met. But just as quickly as she had come to him, she was back in her own seat as if what had just happened meant nothing more than a simple lesson in the use of chopsticks.


	6. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: One of Those Nights by Tim McGraw

"Imagine." Loki repeated the word etched into the stone on the pavement beneath them. His breath blew warm into the freezing night air, visible in front of him. "Imagine what, precisely?"

"Oh, come on. You have to know The Beatles. I'm still not entirely convinced you're not from England, frankly," Grace sputtered.

"I assure you, I am not from England. And of course, I know The Beatles, I have read Mid—" He stopped himself before blurting out the fact that he had read several Midgardian history books. In his quest for power, he had decided long ago that he would read and study everything about all the peoples and lands of all the Nine Realms, including their cultures. When he studied Earth's culture, naturally, The Beatles came up in several books. They, and John Lennon in particular, had odd ideas of what it meant to be a leader in the world. "What I mean to say is, I simply wonder if there can be a deeper meaning to what the song itself said."

"Hm. How do you mean?" She moved a few paces closer to the center of the circle, artfully sidestepping a candle which had been placed by a fan paying his or her respects to the deceased lead singer of the band, whose death had inspired the memorial itself. He looked up briefly and took in the scene around him. The mosaic itself was in the middle of a mixture of carved rock and well-kept lawn, bounded by Carolina Allspice, Mountain Laurel, and wild shrub roses. A mature Magnolia tree sat alongside the main walk. At the very tip of the lawns sat three Redwood trees. Benches surrounded the famous landmark as if inviting onlookers to sit and "imagine" themselves. It was a peaceful place, a place he found difficult to believe existed in an extraordinarily crowded, busy, and powerful city. It was even more peaceful at this moment, when no other tourists stood nearby, driven away by the steadily dropping temperature and the kiss of darkness that had long since touched the evening.

"I simply mean to suggest that perhaps he meant for each of us to imagine our own version of—how did it go? Living as one?" He stared at the rose bushes in the distance, thought back to standing in the center of a crowd in Germany, when he had suggested that humans were meant to be subjugated, that they could live in order under one ruler, under him. He would have united them, war would have ceased, suffering ended. It seemed a lifetime, several lifetimes, ago.

He suddenly became aware of the silence swallowing the air. He turned around, expecting to see her beside him, but she had taken a seat on one of the benches on the far side of the circle. He walked around the mosaic as if it were a grave, carefully approaching her. She played with the hem of her sweater dress under her coat, purse dangling from her other hand and dragging on the pavement. "Careful," he said, taking a seat next to her. "I suspect that is how you lost it the last time."

She gave a rueful smile. "Do you think Lennon would have been disappointed in how we've turned out?"

He tilted his head. "Now it is my turn to ask what you mean."

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and lifting her head back, responding on a deep exhale. "There's so much violence in this world, Luke. So much destruction. I've always been such a positive person, you know? I had a really good life. No trauma from my childhood, good parents, great friends, education, never worried about money. But there's so much evil out there, and it never became clearer to me than last year. I mean...look over there." She pointed to an old, German-looking hotel in the distance, toward the entrance to this particular section of the park. "That's where Lennon himself was shot. It always seemed so ironic to me that this guy who was the great purveyor of peace was taken out by some violent lunatic with a crush on J.D. Salinger. It could have been anyone, and yet, it had to be him. I feel the same way about Bobby Kennedy. An amazing, visionary man who just wanted to lead, to bring peace for everyone. Gunned down by another violent lunatic. How different could the world have been, if he had lived?"

Loki was stricken. He felt totally unprepared for this line of conversation because he had no basis for comparison. He had done nothing in the last few years but destroy, nothing but be the violent lunatic of which Grace spoke. It sickened him, and yet, he understood perfectly why these men had chosen to kill their targets. They wanted notoriety. They wanted to be heard. They wanted to make someone proud of them, whether it was their wives, their idols, their fathers...

"And then last year," Grace continued, "that psycho with his spaceship and his giant Snake-o-Death or whatever it was, knocking over buildings, setting shit on fire—and for what? What would he have gained, even if he'd gotten what he wanted? There would have been nothing left to rule over. All he did was damage people and lives in ways he probably has no idea about."

Her eyes blazed with intense anger and profound sadness all at once, screaming wordlessly at an unknown assailant who may never have touched her but who had obviously affected her in some way which Loki did not comprehend. He suddenly felt as though he were going to burst open from the chest. In a flash of honesty which had never before come over him, flaring so hotly that he could almost see burn marks on his skin, he found himself fighting the urge to tell her everything. How he was that monster, how he was the wretched thing she spoke of, how he didn't care what violence or misery had been inflicted upon others in his wake. He clenched his teeth, bit down on his resolve, and shoved against his brain and tongue and lips with everything he had.

"What do you imagine a peaceful world to be, Luke?" she asked.

Her question gave him enough pause that he was able to focus elsewhere and fight back the urge he'd had. Thankfully, it was a loaded enough question that he was able to take time to gather his thoughts and ability to speak without arousing suspicion. When he was finally able to talk again, he had carefully considered his answer. "I do not believe a truly peaceful world is possible, Grace. I believe the only peace that can be found is in oneself, and even then, for some individuals, it is not possible. Some people are meant to have blessed unrest throughout their lives. For if there is no evil, there cannot be good, can there?"

"And without suffering, there is no peace. Yeah, I know. I get it. I understand that more than you can know. I just wish the suffering part weren't so goddamn painful."

They sat in silence for a few moments. He heard the rustle of dead leaves scattering on the ground and slid his shoes over them. They made a satisfying, dominated crunch. It was then, looking at their feet next to each other, that he noticed how small her feet were compared to his own. In fact, glancing from her feet to her hands to her ears and nose and even her delicate neck, he noticed that everything about her was small compared to him. At his birth, he had been discarded by his birth father for not having been the normal size of the other frost giants. And now, for the first time in his life, he felt like the giant he was supposed to have been. Next to her, he felt powerful and yet powerless all at once.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Sure, why not?"

"If you could have peace in just one part of your life, what would it be?"

"I'm actually pretty good with where my life is," she said, a little too cheerfully. "I have a job I love, a family I love, enough money to keep afloat, and a cute, charming guy with an accent to have dinner with." She winked at him playfully and rearranged the braid on her shoulder. He felt his face go hot. He knew the color had drained from it and wondered if he could go both blue and red at the same time. "Speaking of that, if I want to keep making money, I should get home. I need to go into the office for a little while tomorrow and finish up a project I'm working on." She stood up from the bench and stretched, placing her purse across her frame.

"Ah, yes. I must be off as well, then. Shall I assist you in finding a method of transportation?"

"You are so weird, Luke," she laughed. "I'm fine. I can catch a cab. Just walk me out of the park. As you're aware, I can't be left here unattended or people steal my toys."

And despite what he had believed possible before the precise moment it happened, a sound came from deep within him which he had not heard in years and years. He had been too composed, too focused on keeping his emotions bottled for fear of exposing his true nature. He would never have believed it if you had told him it could happen, and yet, there it was.

Looking at Grace, her gray eyes twinkling mischievously as his own might have, Loki heard himself laughing.


	7. Just The Two Of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: One Step At A Time by Jordin Sparks

"Mom, if you keep cleaning my apartment when I'm gone, I swear to God I'm going to start leaving a tip on the dresser before I leave!" Grace groaned as she closed the freshly scrubbed refrigerator, setting the milk and eggs on the counter before reaching into the oven to grab a frying pan. Someday she swore she would have a house with enough space to keep pots and pans in their proper places. For now, she supposed, at least she had enough closet space where she didn't have to keep sweaters in the pantry.

"I'm sorry, honey," Vivian Lawson said, sweeping back into the kitchen from the second bedroom, gently tugging up the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. "I don't mean to suggest that you're a less than stellar housekeeper, but, well..."

Grace removed the loaf of challah she had just picked up from the bakery from its paper bag. She had decided to make French toast for breakfast on a whim and had called upstairs to her parents' apartment, which was four floors above hers, to ask if her mother wanted to join her. Her father was out having brunch with the other co-op board members, discussing God knows what renovations to make next. But then she realized she was out of bread and had to run down to Ostrovitsky's Bakery to get some. She had also picked up a couple lattes for the two of them, handing one to Vivian as her mother reached past her and plucked the cutting board from its place between the toaster on the edge of the counter and the fridge.

"I know, there was pudding on the middle shelf and probably soda dripping on the ketchup bottle. It's not that I don't appreciate it, mother, but I feel terrible when you do it. It's not like I haven't lived on my own for almost ten years now." She started mixing the eggs and milk in a large silver bowl. Vivian cut the bread into several thick slices and smiled.

"I remember when you were little, this was your favorite thing to eat on Sunday mornings. You would beg me to make it, and you were even more excited when I taught you how to make it yourself."

"Which is also why you don't have to clean my house—because you taught me how to do a lot more than just make French toast." Grace playfully nudged her mother while dipping each piece of bread into the egg mixture, giving each slice a healthy coating.

"Honey," Vivian set the knife down and turned her back to the counter, folding her arms. "It's not that I don't think you can take care of things. It's just that you've got a lot on your plate. Your father and I just want to help."

"You do help, Mom, you and Dad both. Me living in this apartment is enough of a help—it took a lot of stress off my shoulders. I never would have been able to take three months off work if I had rent to pay. Besides," Grace motioned toward the hallway. "I already feel guilty enough, you having to be here so often." Vivian looked almost hurt, but immediately recovered when she saw the guilt-stricken look on her daughter's avoidant face.

"Sweetheart, you're our daughter. And she's our granddaughter. Why wouldn't we want to look after her while you work—or, dare I say, get a social life again?"

Grace began placing the challah into the hot frying pan, trying to pretend her mother hadn't just said what she said. "Could you hand me a plate, please?"

Vivian reached into the cabinet on the left side of the counter and continued talking. "When you asked your father to stay a little later with Amy last Tuesday, I figured it was just you going to the gym a little later than usual. But then when you asked me to babysit last night, well, I was thrilled, to be honest. It's about time you started going out with people again. Now, how are the girls? Is Stacy's husband still a schmuck, or did they work out the stay-at-home issue?"

"Oh," Grace said casually. "Yeah, I actually...didn't see the girls last night." The French toast sizzled in the pan and she replaced it with a new slice, adding the finished one to the steadily growing pile on the plate. "Can you please get out the syrup?"

Vivian did as her daughter asked but wasn't willing to let the subject go. "Well, then who did you see? Work friends?"

 _Typical Jewish mother,_ Grace thought.  _Only one way to deal with this._  "Nope, and anyway, it really doesn't matter, because I'm not seeing him again." She said this as though she were telling her mother she needed more bread sliced.

At the word "him," Vivian nearly dropped the syrup as she was putting it on the table with the butter. The glass bottle clattered against the granite tabletop, and she set it upright before sitting down in one of the upholstered chairs. Smoothing her age-lined hands over her slowly greying hair, she chose her words carefully. She knew, after twenty-eight years raising this child, that Grace could be hotheaded when she felt cornered.

"Grace," Vivian began, taking a deep breath.

 _Oh, here we go,_  Grace thought.

"It's not that I don't want you to be happy, honey, I do. Especially after everything you've been through. But you do realize that you have to be extraordinarily choosy and careful given—"

Grace cut her off, taking the frying pan from the fire and tossing it into the stove with the faucet running cold water over it. "Given what, mother? Which part? The part where I don't know who he is, or the part where I have a kid and you never know anyway, or—" She sighed and rested her hands on the edge of the sink, staring into the residue in the pan. Hadn't she just told her mother that she wasn't planning on seeing Luke again? She hadn't even given him her phone number at the end of the night. He had walked her out of the park, even opened the cab door for her. But she had promised herself she would end it, and she had.

"Grace, I don't think you're stupid. I know you know the risks. I just don't want you to get hurt—again." Her mother crossed the kitchen and put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Of course, you should date again, whenever you're ready, but with a baby...all I'm saying is that whoever you date, you need to take it really slowly and make sure he is everything he says he is."

Grace shook her head. "I'm not dating him, Mom. I don't even know how to get in touch with him. I took him to dinner to thank him for saving my purse from a mugger, we ran into each other one more time at the museum, and then we had dinner and went for a walk. But I know you're right," she said, with the slightest hint of sadness. "Amy is too important to me to risk bringing anyone into her life who might hurt either of us again."

Vivian worried that perhaps she had given Grace the wrong idea. "Gracie, it's not that every man out there is going to hurt you, or that you should assume they would. But we just don't know who he is, and I know this city is huge, but you just never know. You're my baby," she said, turning Grace to face her, cupping her face in her hands. "You're both my babies. I just worry about you."

Vivian might be a pain in the ass, but Grace knew she meant well. "I know, Mom. Now, let me go get Amy up." Grace smiled and put on her best New York, Jewish accent. "I spent awl this time slaving ovah a hot stove, aftah awl!" Vivian let out a laugh so similar to Grace's that they could have been mistaken for one another. She went back to the cabinet to get a few more plates while Grace slipped down the hallway to the back bedroom., where Amy's smiling face greeted her from a white wooden crib. Her chubby little fingers were wrapped around the bars, and she was trying to pull herself up to stand. When she saw Grace, she immediately burst into a smile, bright red curls falling around her face. She was overdue for her first haircut, but Grace couldn't bear the thought of chopping any of it off. She leaned against the door and watched in silence as her baby girl let out a barely audible grunt and braced her feet against the bottom of the bars while grabbing toward the middle.

With every inch of progress Amy made, Grace's smile grew wider. She had watched babies do this before, of course, but the cliché was true—it was so different when it was your own child. It was hard to believe it had been just eight months since she had brought Amy into the world. And since that day, Amy had hit her milestones so quickly, it was dizzying. She got her first tooth when she was just three months and already had three of them, tiny little chicklets inside her perfect petal-pink lips. She had sat up when she was six months and had started crawling just about the same time. Soon enough, Grace knew, she would be walking and running, and then there would be no stopping her—just one of the many ways Grace saw herself reflected in her daughter. And now, slowly, all the while watching Grace, who was nodding her head in encouragement, Amy exerted enough strength that she was able to pull herself forward and struggle to her feet. When she steadied herself, Amy focused her blue eyes squarely on Grace,

"Yayyyyy!" Grace said, clapping for her daughter's success, and Amy responded with an awkward but enthusiastic clap for herself. "Good job, baby!"

"It's like looking in a mirror, isn't it?" Vivian said, suddenly appearing behind Grace, who smiled.

"When did you say I first stood up?" Grace crossed the yellow area rug and picked Amy up, holding her on her hip for support.

Vivian sighed as if she had to struggle to think back that far, when Grace knew that her mother had all but memorized every milestone in Grace's life. "Oh, I'd say...seven or eight months?"

"Yep, then it's like looking in a mirror." Grace sniffed the air, and then lifted her daughter to her nose. "Oh, phew. I at least hope I smell better now than I did back then..." She laid Amy, who now had a very self-satisfied look on her face, down on the changing table and began stripping the dirty diaper from her, dropping it into the Diaper Genie (which was the best gift her parents had bought her since the Barbie Dreamhouse).

Vivian laughed. "The table's all set whenever you're ready. I put the French toast in the oven on warm. Oh, and, by the way, your phone beeped while you were in here." She set the phone down on the changing table next to Amy and headed back to the kitchen.

Grace finished wiping her daughter and secured a new diaper around her bottom. "There, that should make you feel better. Mommy doesn't want you growing up too fast, but I really hope you potty train as fast as you've learned everything else." She blew a raspberry onto Amy's tummy, and Amy let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. "Okay, now let's see which one of the lawyers at Mommy's office can't leave her alone today."

Sure enough, there was a message on her cell phone, which was set to intercept voicemails left on her desk phone at work. Usually a voicemail on Sunday meant one of the lawyers had misplaced a document they needed for court on Monday morning and she would have to either run into Manhattan to find it, taking two hours of her day to do something that would take five minutes once she got there. She was already annoyed when she dialed her voicemail password until she heard the message on the other end, spoken in a soft, fluid, accented voice she immediately recognized.

"Hello, this—this is Luke. I apologize for calling you at your place of work, but I did not know any other way to get in touch with you. I do not know whether you wish to see me again because you did not give me a way to reach you. I found your phone number from the law firm you told me you work at—"

 _Damn,_ she thought.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._  She realized the wine must have gotten the better of her the night before, and she had blurted out the name of the firm in the process of telling him how she had ended up in her profession.

"—and I do not know if you realized it, but you dropped a small set of photos from your belongings before you stepped into the automobile last night, and I want to return them to you. I obviously have no use for them, so if you would like them back, I will make myself available to you in Strawberry Fields tomorrow afternoon at five-thirty. That's all, then."

The message ended abruptly, and Grace stood looking at her phone as if she expected Luke to pop through it as if in a cartoon. Amy reached for the phone with drool-covered fingers, and Grace quickly tossed it onto the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room. She gazed at her daughter's face, her red hair, her blue eyes, her innocence. And then it dawned on her—Luke now knew her last name. Which meant he could easily find her if he wanted to. Which meant that it was entirely possibly that she and her daughter might be in danger. But then, if Luke really wanted to find her, wouldn't he have just showed up at her house rather than bothering to leave a message at her office?

Everything had suddenly become so complicated. Her head hurt. She couldn't deal with all the conflicting thoughts swimming in her head, drowning her. So, instead of dealing with them, she picked Amy up, headed to the kitchen to enjoy their breakfast, and left her phone and Luke exactly where they were: out of sight, out of mind.


	8. Lose Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Not Myself by John Mayer

All day Monday, Grace was distracted. She accidentally hung up on not one, but two clients. She misplaced an affidavit and had to get it re-signed by the partner on the case, which made her look and feel like an idiot. She even managed to leave her desk keys at home, which meant that HR had to lend her a spare set. Of course, the evil bitch in charge of that area of office policy and procedure no doubt made a mental note of it for her file. It was now 4:45 p.m. and she felt herself getting more and more anxious as quitting time approached. She was the only one left in the corner of the floor she shared with about twenty other assistants and their twenty attorneys. Her own boss had left an hour ago, after asking if she was okay. Everyone seemed to ask her that, even a year after everything had happened. Maybe she just noticed it more today because she'd been so on edge, but it was bothering her.

Truth be told, she had been fine until recently—until she met Luke, in fact. Since that day, she'd been generally distracted for no discernible reason, almost as if she were being watched though she knew that was ridiculous. She stared absently out the window behind her cubicle, gazing at the dozens of other buildings within her sight, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand. How could she have been so stupid as to tell a near stranger where she worked? Especially given everything she stood to lose, and everything she already had lost because of random acts of violence, she was furious with herself. Now, the damage was done. So now all that was left was mitigation and escape, two things with which she had extensive experience.

Meanwhile, Loki had arrived at their designated meeting place early, holding a thermos of hot chocolate, which he had procured from the boarding house's kitchen. It was not nearly as good as that which he had shared with Grace at the City Bakery, but it would suffice on this gray November day. He sat on the same bench they had shared just two nights earlier, pondering his current predicament. He was running dangerously low on the small amount of money that Thor and Jane had given him, and he was quite sure that that source of funding was not likely to come through again. He had tried sweet-talking several people in his customary language of lies, but for some very odd reason, New Yorkers seemed to be able to see through his particular brand of skullduggery. This left him with two options: panhandling or some form of employment, neither of which were appealing options to his mind. He was a prince on another planet—he had no idea how one might find employment on Asgard, let alone on Earth. It was one of the few subjects in which he was not well versed because he had no reason to be. It was simply unthinkable that he should ever have to work to survive. Yet here he was, seriously having to consider what he might be qualified to do.

It made him want to vomit.

Thankfully, he did not have to waste too much time dwelling on such gag-inducing thoughts, as, before long, a familiar figure hurtled down the tree-lined path toward him. He rose from the bench to greet her. Her pace was quick enough to have brought a flush to her pale cheeks. She was as put-together and lovely as she ever was, but Loki could sense a change in her usual demeanor. She seemed hurried, tense, and distant.

"Hi, Luke. Do you have the pictures?" She crossed her arms across her chest, hugging herself again. He could not tell whether it was to defend against the bitter cold of the approaching winter season or against some invisible threat of which he was unaware.

"Always a pleasure to see you as well," he said, pointing out her lack of social graces. "Yes, I have your photographs." He hesitated, and then it dawned on him. Perhaps this human girl might be of use to him after all. "Would you—would you like some cocoa? Admittedly, it is not as good as that in which we partook last week, but..."

She held her hand up in front of her, palm out. "Luke, I can't. Do this, I mean," she said, her voice on edge.

He raised a dark, sculpted eyebrow, confounded by the vague words. "Do what, might I ask?"

"Look, whatever you're thinking might happen between us, it's just not going to. I don't know how you and I keep running into each other, whether it's just some weird coincidence or you're following me or what. And I really don't know why I told you where I work, and I get that you were just trying to be helpful, but I just don't go around giving out personal information to people I barely know, and—"

She stopped when she realized the look on his face was not one of anger, hurt, or even dejection. She also realized he was not even trying to argue with her, as one might expect a man to do when a woman is in the process of rejecting his advances. Instead, he stood there with a blank expression on his face, simply holding out the plastic-covered packet of photographs, which he had procured from his inside coat pocket.

"Is this not why you came? To retrieve these?" He stretched his hand further toward her, flexing his palm. Grace gingerly took the pictures from him and subconsciously clutched them to her chest. "I will have you know that the only reason I called you at your place of work is because I had no other way to contact you. I certainly have better things to do with my time than follow you or arrange meetings between us. In fact, you do realize that you have suggested all our outings, do you not?"

She felt as though she had been slapped. "I..."

He placed his hands behind his back as he had done so many times in the past. "I was certain that, as you were so concerned about the contents of your bag the night you lost it, you would have wanted back any items that fell from it, including those photographs. I am sorry if you mistook my actions as malicious. Had I meant you harm, I could surely have caused it by now, but I did not. And tonight, I simply offered you a warm drink because it is utterly dismal tonight, and I happened to have a surplus of my own beverage. But, no matter. I shall not bother you henceforth." The words fell from his thin, wet lips without spite or anger, but rather, matter-of-factly. She noticed his pale, emotionless face seemed even paler in the moonlight. He turned to walk away, his ebony hair dangling around the nape of his neck, hands closed into fists as he stiffly placed one foot in front of the other. He walked proudly, head held upright as if he were royalty.

She stood with her mouth agape, considering his words carefully. Her first reaction was to spit fire back at him, tell him what an asshole he was, how she knew she had been right. But she couldn't, because what he said wasn't untrue. She did want the photographs back, he didn't have another way to contact her, and maybe he really was just offering her a warm drink. In fact, in her stunned silence, she realized that he was right—at no point other than this last phone call had Luke initiated any of their outings or contact. He barely spoke when they were together, in fact. There was no rational reason for her to distrust him. Moreover, she had promised herself long ago, when the world had fallen to pieces around her and she had begun to pick them up, she would not become a person who could not believe in the goodness of others. She would not let hate and hardness take more from her than had already been taken in those burning, angry hours.

In her head, she knew there was almost no chance that what had happened before would happen again. Still, she had momentarily allowed that fear, however irrational, to get the better of her. It pained her because it was this path that led to hurting others as a result of being hurt herself, and then? Then, the evil that had entered her life would consume it. Consume her.

 _You will not consume me,_  she thought.

"Luke." Her voice cracked as she spoke as if it was not her own. She put the photographs in her jacket pocket and shrugged her shoulders. "I—I'm sorry."

He turned around slowly and retraced his steps toward her, hands still tightly balled into fists, but a calm, inquisitive look in his piercing jade eyes. "For which part? Insinuating I have less than gentlemanly intentions or maligning me for going out of my way to return your personal property?"

Again, she noticed, his voice was not sharp, but cool and collected, as if he were merely giving a pedestrian directions to the nearest grocery store. Still, he was clearly hurt, and she could understand why. "Don't be like that. Okay, I guess that's not fair either," she said, putting her hands up to her forehead and sinking down onto a bench. "It's a long story. I overreacted. I know I overreacted. It wasn't fair to you. I've known you for like, two weeks, that's all, and it just freaked me out that I've given you such personal information, and that you found me at work—it's not something most guys would do, you know? I mean, most guys wouldn't bother going out of their way just to return some pictures that meant nothing to them."

A slow smile crept across his face as he joined her, remembering the hot chocolate in the thermos which he had almost left here in his haste to get away from her. He reached down next to the bench and retrieved it, pouring the warm, slightly runny liquid into the makeshift cup the lid provided. He handed it to Grace, who drank deeply. He guessed she must have been colder than she let on. "Most men would not stop a mugger in his tracks for a young woman they did not know, either, Grace."

At last, her face lit up the way he had become accustomed to seeing it. "I guess there aren't many men like you, to be honest."

"Correction, dear Grace," Loki replied. "There are no men like me."


	9. Holiday Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Underneath The Tree by Kelly Clarkson

**"** Come on! You can't tell me you've never seen a Christmas tree! I'm Jewish and I've seen Christmas trees!" Grace gasped with astonishment, sitting across from Loki at City Bakery on a frigid early December afternoon. The sun was just beginning to set, and they were enjoying yet another familiar cup of cocoa, along with some freshly baked challah and honey for dipping. Loki broke off another piece of the sweet bread, relishing its warmth as it passed his lips. He rolled his eyes.

"I assure you, I would not lie about something so trivial. I am unsure why you mort—I mean, why Christmas trees are so meaningful to people. After all, it is merely a Pagan custom adopted and diluted by a more organized religious group for the purpose of assimilating converts more easily."

She blinked at him in disbelief. "Okay, Scrooge. That's it. We're going down to Rockefeller." She opened her purse and tossed some money down on the table. "Get your coat on. I'm going to show you exactly why Christmas trees are so great. Even if you're a Jew, or, you know, you." She stuck her tongue out at him, and he flinched.  _She is so very odd,_ he thought.

She was already halfway to the door when he caught up to her. Yanking on his coat and scarf, his lanky legs allowed him to push past her to hold the door for her as a gentleman would. She smiled and ran toward the curb, arm outstretched to hail a cab, which appeared almost immediately. He had noticed it always seemed easier to get a driver's attention when she was with him than when he was by himself. Although he had only used a cab once since his arrival in the city, preferring to walk almost everywhere for the solitude it provided.

They climbed into the yellow car, and she leaned forward toward the bespectacled driver, who smelled vaguely of spices and sweat. "Rock Center, please. Take Fifth all the way up." The driver nodded knowingly and stepped on the gas, jerking the car forward. Settling back into the seat, she lifted her hair out from the back of her coat and looked at Loki. "You know, I was about to ask how it was possible that you grew up not even knowing what a Christmas tree looked like, but then I realized we've been having these lunch and dinner dates for almost two months now, and I still don't know where you're from. All I know is that you're not from England."

He hated this question, and it seemed it was asked of him every other day by someone. He supposed it was because of his accent, but there really was no way to answer the question in a way a mortal would understand. He wished he had just gone along with her guess the first time she had asked and said he was from England. It would have made things much easier. He knew, however, that at this point, he had to give her some sort of concrete answer. They had known each other far too long for him to get away with being intentionally vague for much longer.

"I am from a place that is farther away than is feasible to visit. I can understand how you might take me for English, given my accent, but I suppose that if I had to give you an approximation, I am closer to Norwegian than any other ethnicity. We do not celebrate Christmas, or any other holiday, for that matter, but I am well-read enough to know about most Eastern and Western holidays."

She opened her mouth as if to ask another question, but before she could, the cab lurched and stopped suddenly. She opened her purse to hand the cab driver money, but Loki stopped her and pulled a crisp ten-dollar bill from his inside coat pocket. He continued to run dangerously low on funds but could spare the ten dollars the cab ride had cost. After handing the cab driver the bill, he exited the car and followed her to the curb, narrowly avoiding two other cars in the process. All the wars he had seen, and he had almost been taken out by just a few tons of metal on more than one occasion. Tony Stark would surely have loved to see that.

"Follow me," she said, turning her head to him and motioning forward. He caught merely a glimpse of her in the light and was almost taken aback. The sun was low and glowing brightly, casting its warm blaze onto her dark, cherry colored hair, giving it an almost ethereal glow. Her gray eyes were blazing blue again. He had taken note every time this happened and wondered if she, too, had noticed it. She started down the pathway between two squat buildings on either side of them toward one exceedingly tall building that reminded him of the Empire State Building. He wasn't really paying attention to what lay ahead of them but was instead focused on not running into any of the seemingly thousands of people swarming the area.

She stopped suddenly and stood directly in front of him, looking up into his eyes with the expression of a child on her face, eyes shining in the deepening sunset. "Now, tell me this isn't just the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" She stepped to his left side, allowing him to see past her.

The first thing he noticed were the flags. Incredible, vibrant colored flags from numerous countries of Midgard, lined one right next to another as if soldiers standing at attention. They were swaying in the cold air, making flapping noises as they moved. Directly below them, in a sunken plaza, was a giant ice-skating rink with dozens of people circling the ice, some barely staying upright, others making elaborate designs in the ice as they skated past their less-talented brethren. But, of course, the centerpiece of the entire place was the 60-foot-tall Norway Spruce sitting just above a huge golden statue of the Greek Titan Prometheus. The tree was dripping with brightly colored, twinkling lights, and seemed to radiate its own warmth outward. He turned his head slowly from one side to the other, taking in the entire shining scene, which, to him, appeared to be a living, breathing work of art.

Grace, meanwhile, watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. She couldn't believe that he had never seen a Christmas tree, but figured if you are going to see one for the first time, it better be the most impressive one in the world. He was staring up at the enormous tree in front of them, green eyes sparkling with the reflection of the lights, his strikingly chiseled face relaxed and, if she hadn't known better, slightly awestruck. His raven hair was slicked back but looked soft, feathery almost. He was standing so close to her that she caught the scent of him—comforting, but strong, like pine and woodsmoke—and breathed him in deeply, hoping he wouldn't notice. She suddenly realized that for once, he didn't look completely sour—and that he was quite handsome when he didn't look like he had caught a whiff of something foul.

With a start, Loki came out of his light-induced trance. Something warm and soft was pressed into his left palm. It was a few moments before he had the nerve to look at his left side. When he did, he had to struggle to keep himself from reacting, lest she see emotions rise from him which he could not risk a mortal seeing. He could only jerk his head back up, stare back at the tree, and try to reconcile what he thought he should be feeling against what he actually was feeling—which, at the moment, was warm. At some point, standing in front of this symbol of the human capacity to love and unite around a shared belief in good will toward other men, Grace had taken his hand in her own, holding on with all her strength. Without realizing it, he felt his fingers intertwine with hers.  _What could it hurt,_ he thought,  _if_ _it gets me closer to what I need?_  But at that moment, he couldn't even remember what that was.

"Luke," she finally said after what seemed like hours of silence, "can I ask you something?"

He swallowed hard, feeling as though he was back on the bridge in Asgard with Mjolnir sitting on his chest. "Yes."

"Don't you find it odd that we've been hanging out for these last couple months and I don't even know your last name?"

 _Damn,_ he thought _._  "I suppose you are right. It is odd," he replied, trying to avoid responding to the implication in her question. Neither of them looked away from the glow of the tree, and neither of them let go of the other's hand.

"Luke?"

"Yes?"

"Give it up already."

Loki sighed, resigned. "Laufeyson. My name is Luke...Laufeyson."


	10. What We Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: The First Time by Lifehouse

"You're sure you don't want to ice skate?" Grace said, with a half-hopeful glance in Loki's direction. "I promise I won't laugh when you fall on your ass!"

"I beg your pardon," he said, offended. "I could skate circles around you. I simply do not feel the need to perform as a trained monkey."

She laughed irreverently. They had spent the last couple hours walking around Rockefeller Center's perimeter, looking at the tree from various angles, watching skaters make designs in—or fall on—the ice in the rink, and listening to the holiday carols being pumped in through the speakers hidden in the trees lining the plaza. He had never actually heard most of the songs, but according to her, they were a great Christian and, partially, American tradition around the winter holidays. She was Jewish, she explained, so they really were just enjoyable as any other music might be for her, but she appreciated the secular value of the "holiday season," as she put it. To him, for all the humans complained about it being dreary and gray, he would take this brightly lit, cheerful Midgard winter over the ice blue, frozen wasteland of Jotenheim any day. And for all he had seen in his months of exile after he'd fallen from Asgard's bridge, as much as he hated being trapped in this prison, at least Midgard had celebrations and some amount of joy within its realm.

As they approached the place where they had first stood on this night, his hand burned wildly where she had touched it on this spot just a few hours before. Neither of them had said anything about that moment, and it had passed as quickly as it had come. As soon as he had told her his surname, she had let go and suggested they take a walk. He had readily agreed, not wanting whatever he had been feeling at that moment to linger. Now that they'd returned, the feeling had come back, although her touch hadn't. He adjusted the fleece scarf around his neck and pulled on his gloves.

"I must be going, Grace. As always, I am charmed and delighted to have been in your presence." He turned to head back through the gardens, but she put her hand on his upper arm to stop him. His muscles tightened at her grasp and his eyes involuntarily squeezed shut. He turned back around.

"Let me share a cab with you. You must have a long walk home," she suggested. "I usually don't cab it all the way to Brooklyn, but it's really getting late, and I don't feel like taking the train."

He realized he had about ten seconds to come up with a plausible reason why she could not share a cab with him. She knew he lived in Manhattan so he couldn't reasonably offer to see her home first since she lived all the way in Brooklyn. It was only a twenty-minute walk to the boarding house from where they were, but he knew she was stubborn and would not take no for an answer. And he really had no good alternative in mind he could misdirect them to. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought this far ahead. After all this time they'd spent together, it was a wonder she, with her curious nature, hadn't already asked him where he lived. "I do not wish to trouble you," he finally said. "It really is a short walk, and, as you know, vagrants and thieves pose no threat to me." He smiled, hoping this would placate her.

"I don't doubt you're able to defend yourself, but it's freezing out here, and I'm already getting a cab. It would be silly for you to walk." She was already hailing a yellow car down before he could argue any further. His silver tongue tied; he could not lie his way out of this situation. She was going to find out where he lived, and probably be either terrified of him, viewing him as the vagrant she'd originally believed him to be, or pity him as so many others had. Pity was one thing could not stand. His pride would not allow it, not from any Midgardian, but particularly not from her. But there was no way around or out of it. All the hard work he had put into manipulating her was about to come to an end once she realized that not only was he what she had believed him to be from the day they met, but also that he had been deceiving her the whole time.

They climbed into the cab, and he leaned forward to the driver. "Sixty-third and Central Park West," he said, very nearly a whisper. "And be quick about it." He wanted this torture over with.

She noticed a change in his demeanor as they rode through the streets of the city, shining brightly with the holiday season. Storefronts were lit with garlands and lights, restaurants had painted "frost" on the edges of their windows, a border to the patrons dining within as if trying to make human Christmas cards. She stared out her window and put her hand on the seat between them, an offering. Loki did not notice; he was too wrapped up in plotting his next move, finding a new route after this one inevitably ended. He was sure she would be angry with him and was preparing for a thorough lashing out. At the very least, she would have questions he was not equipped to answer.

The cab ride seemed to take years, although the boarding house was only minutes away. It might have even been quicker for him to have walked, given all the traffic. As they arrived at the address he had given the driver and exited the cab, she looked around, confused. They were standing on a narrow street with a dry cleaner on one side and a YMCA on the other. There were no apartments nearby that she could see. Loki stood with his hands in his pockets and his head down. He raised his eyes to see her turning in circles, obviously confused. One of her delicate hands held her scarf close to her throat, and the other was lifting the brim of her knit cap up so that she could gaze toward the upper levels of the buildings on either side of them. He watched her, waiting for her to figure it out on her own, hoping he would not have to say it.

"I'm confused," she said, finally, dashing that hope. "I thought you were going home?"

"This is my home," he replied. It pained him like a thousand needles through his spine to admit this. "I have been staying here since my arrival in New York."

It took her a few moments to process what he had just said. She had been developing a friendship with this guy for months now and the whole time, he had been living in what basically amounted to a youth hostel. She realized at that moment how little she really knew about him, and how little she really knew him. For a moment, she didn't know whether to be angry, hurt, or sad. She decided to go with her gut, and her gut said to put her own feelings aside and do what she did best. She hurried toward him, purse jostling at her left side. Her boots clicked on the pavement, echoing in the silence of the night. "Luke, why didn't you tell me? We've been spending all this time together, and you never thought to mention you're living in a—a shelter?"

"You never asked," he replied. It was the truth, after all. She had never asked after his living arrangements. She had merely asked where he was from.

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut again. "Well, this just won't do at all." She paced furiously back and forth in front of him. He watched her curiously. She did not seem angry, at least not as angry as he had expected. She did not even seem to care that he had deliberately left this information out of their many conversations. He truthfully could not tell how she was feeling at this moment, other than perhaps restless, judging by the pace at which she was walking forward and back.

"Grace, please, stop, you are making me positively queasy," he said. "I am fine. Once I find employment, I will be able to find suitable living arrangements. This is only temporary, I assure you." While he had hoped that this explanation would calm her down, it seemed to only serve to amp her up even further.

She threw her arms up and flew into a near fit. "Are you kidding me? You're telling me that you don't have a job, and you're living in this place, and you've been hanging out with me this whole time and didn't once think to mention it so that I might be able to, I don't know, help you?"

He had her right where he wanted her, despite what he had originally believed would happen in this very situation. But something strange had happened. He hadn't had to manipulate her at all. She had just...offered to help him. And he wasn't quite sure what to do with this twist in events. So, he did what came most naturally to him: he distrusted it. "And why should I have thought you would want to help me? You know nothing of me, Grace. You did not even know my last name until tonight. Why should you want to help someone whom you hardly know?"

He snarled the words at her, for reasons he knew not. She was offering him what he needed and wanted most, but he felt unable to accept an offer of help on its face. He would have been much more comfortable accepting it had it been under his own false pretenses. His eyes flared, and he worried for a moment that they had gone red.

"Because this is what friends do, Luke!" She spat the words at him the same as he had spat his own at her, putting her fingers to her temples. Then, more calmly, she lowered her hands and raised her eyes to meet his. He had been prepared for her to be angry with him for lying, but not for refusing help. He was usually so skilled at wearing whatever emotional mask was necessary for any given situation, but for this, he was entirely at a loss. His brow wrinkled and he pursed his lips. As it turned out, he didn't need to say anything because she took over.

"This," she repeated, taking his hands between her own gloved fingers, "is what friends do."


	11. Coming or Going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Every Day by Rascal Flatts

"Hi, Dad!" Grace threw her arms around her father as he squeezed the suitcases into the narrow doorway, Vivian trailing behind him, taking off her gloves. She hugged his neck and accidentally nudged his glasses down his nose from behind his ears. "How was Alaska?"

Alvin Lawson dropped the bags onto the foyer floor, defeated, and hugged his only daughter back. "Hi, sweetie."

"Oh, honey, Alaska was wonderful!" Vivian threw the gloves onto the oak table near the door, and opened her arms to Grace, who left her father's embrace for her mother's. "A week wasn't nearly long enough, but your father certainly outdid himself for my Hanukkah present this year."

"I missed you guys!" Suddenly, toddling out from behind Grace's legs was a tiny figure in a pink sweatsuit, the shirt emblazoned with the embroidered words, "Mommy's Little Troublemaker."

"And there's my second little princess!" Vivian cooed, crouching down to pick up Amy, who giggled wildly at the sight and smell of her grandmother. With the baby resting on her hip, Vivian turned to Grace. "I hope it wasn't any trouble, us being away. Did you mind staying here?"

"Mom, it's four floors up from my own apartment," Grace rolled her eyes. "Besides, I'm almost thirty. It's not like I'm at Jewish day camp and I'm getting homesick."

"Point taken," Vivian said, not really paying attention. Amy had decided to show her grandmother her new trick—counting to five on her fingers—and Vivian's attention was elsewhere. Grace smiled and turned back to her father, who was hanging his hat on the hat rack opposite the table.

"Any problems?" Alvin asked, rubbing his graying ring of hair as if it would make it grow back over the bald spot caused by years of wearing a yarmulke. He unbuttoned his heavy wool overcoat and threw it up next to Vivian's violet cloth one.

"No PROBLEMS, per se," Grace said, with an emphasis on "problems" that her father knew to be a hint of something else going on. Her eyes had changed to a pale blue, a trait that Alvin's mother had handed down to Grace. Whenever Grace was experiencing some sort of extreme emotion, her eyes would flash various shades of blue from their normal, steely gray.

Meanwhile, Amy gurgled and blew spit bubbles, shaking her overgrown curls back and forth. She pulled herself off Vivian's lap and crawled over to Grace, reaching up for her. Grace lifted her daughter and carried her to the kitchen, setting her in the highchair and heading to the cupboard to get a single-serve applesauce to keep Amy occupied.

Alvin pulled out a stool from under the kitchen counter and gave his daughter a tired smile. "I know that tone, Gracie. It's late, so just cut to the chase."

"All right, Dad, you got me. There's this friend of mine who needs help." She pulled off the lid of the applesauce and rooted around in a drawer for a baby spoon, before realizing that Amy would have the applesauce all over her face and hands no matter what she did anyway. So, she just handed Amy the cup of applesauce and let her have at it. Amy went fingers-first into the creamy mush, joyfully playing with her food before sticking her fingers in her mouth.  _Boy, I wish that were all it took to make me happy these days,_  Grace thought.

"What kind of help does your friend need?" Alvin asked, Vivian joining them at the counter.

"Do you remember the guy who helped me out with that mugger in the park a few months ago?"

"Of course, you said his name was, what, Luke?"

"Yes, Daddy," she replied.

"Oh, we've moved on to 'Daddy,' have we? This must be VERY serious," he said, cracking a knowing smile.

"Well," she continued, pretending not to have heard him, "it turns out, he hadn't mentioned it this whole time, but he's been living at the Y near Central Park! For months now!" She shook her head, still disbelieving. She could scarcely imagine living in that kind of situation for a week, much less the months Luke had been doing it.

Alvin, for his part, could see where this was going. He knew his daughter too well—for all she had seen and experienced in the last troubling years of her life, she still had the passion and desire to help others less fortunate than herself. It was admirable, but he sometimes worried that she deliberately avoided seeing the bad in people so that she couldn't be accused of being jaded. Still, the man had helped her without asking anything in return, and he knew that she had been seeing him socially for a couple months now. At least he had been getting her out of the house. Not that she'd had much time for socializing since Amy's birth, but both he and Vivian had discussed on several occasions that it was time she started at least seeing friends again. She was only twenty-eight years old, after all. She needed to have a life.

"Let me guess," he said. "You want me to pull strings on the board. Help him get a cheap place?"

Grace smiled her most winning smile at her father. She had long ago refused to even consider using her father's connections to the housing board for her own personal gain (although had eventually relented after discovering she was pregnant), but this was different. This was for someone who clearly was deserving and in need. Luke had done her a tremendous favor without ever asking to be repaid, and she felt this was payment in kind. "Oh, Daddy, would you?"

He playfully rolled his eyes. His daughter knew damn well he couldn't resist her when she asked for something because it was such a rare occurrence. And frankly, she never even got so far as asking. Usually he could guess, and if he could, he would deliver. And on this, he was pretty sure he could. "I'll see what I can do, sweetie. We've been having a rough year trying to sell these places, I'm sure they'd rather have a warm body in one of them than see them vacant. He'd have to pay at least half the mortgage cost in rent, but if he needs to get himself on his feet first, I could get it waived for maybe a few months."

She jumped and gave a clap, and Amy followed her mother's lead, splattering the applesauce that was on her hands to the tray table in front of her and into Grace's hair. All four of them burst into laughter. "Come on, baby girl, let's go de-sauce both of us," Grace said, lifting Amy out of the chair. She carried the fire-haired little girl out of the room and into her parents' master bathroom, intending to take a clean baby home with her.  _Spoils of housesitting,_  Grace thought.

Meanwhile, Alvin looked cautiously at the hallway, making sure the bathroom door was closed before turning back to Vivian. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing here, Viv?" he asked, running a hand over his bald spot again.

She smiled at her husband of forty years, knowing exactly what his worry was. "Al, you worry far too much," she said, her Long Island accent coming through though she tried often to hide it.

"Coming from the most stereotypical Jewish mother since Sylvia Fine on The Nanny."

Vivian slapped him on the arm, her own eyes twinkling mischievously. "I had the same feeling a few weeks ago, dear. But think of it this way," she said, standing up and heading for the door, intending to carry the suitcases to their bedroom. "At least she's not hiding in her room anymore."

She grabbed one of the handles and dragged it a few feet. Alvin had fallen in love with her when they were just kids, partially for her need to be independent and do things her own way—a trait their Grace had shown from day one, when she kicked Alvin in the nose in the delivery room when he tried to wrap her in a blanket.

"Are you sure? I just don't want her to get hurt, especially if I move this guy in a few floors away from all of us."

"First, Al, if you want her to be safe, the safest place you can have this guy is a few floors from all of us. Second, he did save our daughter's stuff from a mugger without asking anything from her. And third, if I know Grace, he probably even refused her initial offer and she's the one insisting. She needs to prove to herself that not every man is a monster. Let her work this out in her own way."

Alvin sighed and stood up himself, grabbing the bags from his wife. "I just hope this guy's relatively normal."

* * *

Grace sat on the 6th Avenue Express from Brooklyn to Manhattan, her head leaning against the window. She was trying to figure out how to tell Luke what she was about to tell him, and she wished he'd had access to a phone. In fact, she wondered if he even had a cell phone. At this point, she just wanted the train to speed up so that she could get to the Y before it got dark. They had a lot to do, and she didn't even know if he'd be "home" when she got there. Usually, they made plans to see each other again at the end of one of their excursions together, and she had told him she would come see him when she had figured things out. Well, that day had finally come, thanks to her father's expert negotiating skills, but she had no way of letting him know that. So, she was just banking on blind faith and hope today.

Truth be told, she couldn't really explain why she cared so much for him. Perhaps it was because of that first night, when he had so casually stopped that mugger and seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing—as if he did that sort of thing every day, as if he were some kind of hero, like one of the Avengers. But the truth was, those guys didn't exist in her world. They existed to save the universe from giant threats, not to stop regular old muggers, arsonists...rapists. Those guys were under the control of the normal human justice system, or what there was of it, and frankly, that system had failed on so many levels for so many people that it wasn't worth putting your faith in. So, for a regular guy like Luke to take it upon himself to help a nameless, faceless girl without asking anything in return, made him worthy as far as she was concerned. Plus, he was really nice when he wanted to be. He had sort of a dark, brooding thing going on, and he could be caustic at times, but then, who in New York couldn't be? It was practically a language. At any rate, being a sarcastic ass from time to time didn't mean he deserved the situation he'd found himself in. She wanted to ask him what had happened to him that had led him to be homeless and jobless, but she also knew that there were some topics that people didn't want to talk about until they were ready. She wasn't going to push him. If he wanted her to know, he'd tell her. But now she understood why he had been so secretive about things in the past. Hopefully, he would stop that now that he didn't have to be ashamed of his living situation anymore.

The train stopped at the 59th Street station and she hurried off and through the turnstile, and up the stairs. The blast of cold December air hit her in the face as she came up to Central Park West, and she practically ran down the street toward 63rd. "Dear God, please let him be there," she said, the wind causing her eyes to tear. Turning onto the street where she'd last seen Luke, she fought against the gusts which were now increasing as a result of being in the wind-tunnel of a street, when she came up upon the steps to the Y's door. She realized at this point that she wasn't quite sure what to do now. Was she supposed to knock? Ask to be buzzed in? Just head inside and ask around for the tall, kind of shitty-tempered dude with the long black hair and the attitude problem? Fortunately, she didn't have to answer any of these questions because before she could logic her way through them, Loki came up behind her.

"I was beginning to believe I might never see you again." His voice was like ice, and yet, so very warm to her ears. She spun around at once, and a grin stronger than the afternoon sun passed over her lips.

"Luke! I'm so glad you're here! You have no idea, actually, because I have fantastic news."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. "Does it explain why you have been absent for these last two weeks?" He stared at her blankly.

She was stung by the way his words poured from his lips. "I'm sorry, but it's not like you're easy to get in touch with here. I don't exactly know how to call and leave you a message, if you'll even get it, and frankly, I don't want everyone here having my contact information, you know." She crossed her arms. "Now. Do you want to continue being an ass, or do you want to know why I've come?"

He folded his arms as well, as a petulant child might. "I suppose since you've come all this way."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," she replied sarcastically. "I told you I'd come back when I had things figured out. And I do."

"Let me guess," he started. "You have reconsidered our friendship in light of what you've learned about me. You no longer have want of my company, as I am but a pauper here. Understandable, but I wish you had not waited so long to bring me this news." He climbed the stairs and tried to push past her.

"Luke, you magnificent ass, will you wait a second?" She grabbed his arm as she had that night at Rockefeller Center, when she had kept him from walking off alone. "I said I had fantastic news. Why would I come all this way just to end our friendship?"

He gave his best sour look. The truth was, he had missed her. He didn't want to admit it, but when he had seen her standing on the doorstep, long hair dangling in a ponytail, legs draped in thick jeans and red canvas shoes, it was impossible for him to ignore. So instead, he went to his "happy" place—except for him, a "happy" place was somewhere dark and cold, where he did not have to feel anything for anyone. A place where the only thing that mattered was revenge.

"Please, Luke, just listen. You don't have to stay here anymore."

"Oh? And where do you suggest I go?" His wool overcoat suddenly began to feel tight, his scarf closing in at his neck. He could sense he knew the answer that was coming but was too scared to think it possible. There was no use getting one's hopes up, after all, when he was constantly reminded that he was not good enough to have the things in life he wanted.

"Well, for now, you're coming home with me. And, in a week," she replied, with a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face, "to your own apartment, a floor above mine."

* * *

It hardly seemed real.

One moment, Grace had been telling him that he would be getting his own place, away from the wretched boarding room to which he had been resigned. The next, he was stepping off the train with her, each of them carrying a bag of his things, all the mortal things he had in this world, as she walked with him to her own apartment. She trusted him enough to share her home with him. This much, he had never expected nor had he even desired. His head was spinning, his defenses lost along with his senses. He knew nothing good could come of getting so close to a Midgardian woman, and yet, she had insisted, and where she insisted, he could not resist. It was as though she was a witch like his mother, but she had displayed no form of magic to him, except for the magnificent trick she played with her eyes. He still had to ask her about that, he reminded himself.

As they walked up a hill that she said led to their apartment building, he listened to her talk about how they would have to get him furniture, how she would help him "stock the pantry," how he would need to set up "cable" and "phone" services—but all he really wanted at the moment was to collapse into a warm bed and absorb everything that had just happened. His head hurt, and he wasn't sure how much more change he could take all at once. It seemed his grand plan had turned on its head. He had planned to manipulate his way into a place to live, but instead, she had manipulated him into accepting her help. Or maybe she didn't have to. He wasn't sure; he was too tired to be sure of anything.

"Okay, here we are!" She stopped in front of a building that looked like several other buildings on the street, tall and thin, with a large front stoop with ten steps leading to an equally large front door. They dragged the suitcases up the stairs, and she unlocked the door, pushing it open with her shoulder. He held it for her with his large hand while she pulled her suitcase in and headed to the right, down a wide hallway, which was brightly lit and carpeted. The walls were painted a peachy color, and it made the entire place seem quite warm and inviting. Much more so than where he had been staying, at any rate.

"Anyway, I'm on the first floor, right here." She stopped at a door about halfway down the hallway, which was labeled 1A. "Not my first choice, being on the first floor, but I took what I could get. Anyway, you've got to be exhausted—I know I am. Plus, my Mom is probably anxious to get home. Which reminds me—there's something you should probably know about me..."

She opened the door with yet another key, and his eyes grew wide. He did not see Vivian sitting on the camel-colored sofa, rising at their entrance. He did not see the photographs of Grace and her friends lining the walls in vivid frames of all shapes and sizes. He did not even notice the smell of delicious baking bread and roasting chicken wafting from the generously sized kitchen.

What he noticed instead was the little girl with fiery curls crawling happily toward Grace, a familiar smile on her face. And the same greyish-blue eyes sparkling at Grace the way Grace's sparkled at him so many times before.

"Luke," Grace said, "this is my daughter, Amy."


	12. Return to the Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Collide by Howie Day

"A daughter?" Loki stood, mouth agape.  _What fresh hell is this?_  "You have a daughter?"

Grace nodded, lifting the child into her arms. Amy stared at him, a blank expression on her face as if waiting for a cue from her mother or grandmother as to how to react to this new, odd-looking stranger in her house. Grace looked from Amy to Loki and back again. "So—yeah. I know what you must be thinking, and you must have a million questions, but, uh—yeah."

For the first time since he had met her, he realized, Grace was at a loss for words. He had so many questions for her about this child. Where was her father? Why was he not here? What were the circumstances of her birth? Why had Grace not told him she was a mother until now?

"It would seem I am not the only one who harbors secrets, then," he said, a slow, satisfied smile growing across his face. He felt some of his mental prowess coming back to him, knowing that she was not so morally superior to him, after all. She had been upset with him for keeping his living situation from her all these months but had never bothered to mention the existence of a child in her life! He knew he could use this to his advantage somehow, make her feel guilty, cause her to feel indebted to him for forgiving this transgression against their trust. But the specifics of his plot would have to wait, for he realized they had another guest in their presence when Vivian cleared her throat.

"Oh! How stupid of me. Hi, Mom. Was she any trouble?" Grace crossed the living room, set Amy down on the overstuffed microfiber chair next to the sofa and handed her a stuffed doll with identical red hair from an open chest of toys next to the door to the apartment.

"No, no trouble at all, as usual," Vivian replied, watching Loki out of the corner of her eye. He was as handsome as her daughter had said, taller and lankier than she had expected, with the most piercing green eyes she had ever seen. A real looker, as her own mother might have said.

"Luke, this is my Mom, Vivian," Grace said, as she crossed the living room to the kitchen and grabbed a set of potholders. "Mom, this is Luke Laufeyson, the guy I've told you about." Vivian smiled warmly at him and took his hand. He noticed Grace looked like her mother's daughter, with the same wild, dark hair—although Vivian's was graying at the temples— and the same dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. She looked elegant, even for a Thursday evening, dressed in a black oversized cable-knit sweater and dark jeans. Although he supposed she must be at least fifty, she looked much younger.

"My, my, it must be freezing outside! Luke, your hands are ice cold. Come, come inside." She turned to face Grace, who was now busying herself with the chicken in the oven. "Darling, I hate to run, but I've left your father upstairs to make our own dinner, and God knows if I leave him alone for too long, either I won't get to eat, or he'll burn the place down!"

Grace scarcely looked up from what looked like surgery on the chicken. "Thanks, Ma—I'll call you later, okay?"

Vivian winked one blue eye at him, and he forced a smile to his lips. "Nice to meet you, Luke—and we'll get together sometime this week so Al can tell you about your new place, all right?" And then she was gone in a swish of black fabric, leaving Loki, Amy, and Grace alone in the apartment.

He stood in the middle of the room, not really knowing what to do. In front of him, Grace was wrangling the chicken, and on his left, the child played quietly with her doll. He eyed Amy suspiciously. He had not been around children on Asgard and was no more experienced with Midgardian children. What little experience he did have left him feeling awkward and out of place, certainly not comfortable in his skin. Amy, for her part, had taken the doll's head and put it squarely in her mouth, spit dampening the fabric. He snapped his head up at the sound of Grace's voice.

"Hey, Luke, could you give me a hand in here?" She shut the chicken back into the stove, and opened a box of rice, which she poured into a sauté pan on the front burner. He inched his way toward the kitchen. He had never had to cook for himself, and had no idea what he was doing, but also did not know how to tell her this. "Can you please get a bottle of wine out of the cabinet over there?" She pointed to a large cherry wood wine cabinet with a lock on the front. "The key is on top of the fridge toward the front. I have to keep it locked because of Sticky Fingers over there." She motioned to Amy, who was now crawling over to the toy chest, having left the doll sitting upright on the chair.

He had no problem locating the key, as he was practically as tall as the fridge itself. He unlocked the wine cabinet, then realized he had no idea what kind of wine Grace liked. He did know, however, that chicken called for white wine. "Is there a particular vintage you were hoping I'd select?"

She chuckled. "We don't do 'vintages' in this house, my dear. If it's got alcohol, I'll drink it."

"All right," he said. He could appreciate her forthrightness and simplicity. He picked a Riesling from the small refrigerator she had in the cabinet and walked it back to the counter where she had laid a bottle opener. Uncorking the bottle masterfully, he poured two glasses and handed her one. She took it in one hand and continued stirring the rice with the other.

"Can you do me another favor, please?" she asked. He grew weary of this but knew that he was here only under her favor, so he gritted his teeth and nodded. "Could you put Amy in her highchair over here, please? I've got to get her dinner in her so that she goes down quickly tonight."

A long string of Asgardian curse words flew across his brain and very nearly escaped his lips. He had absolutely no idea how to do what she was asking him to do, yet he could not admit this. He was a well-read, intelligent prince! He had seen Thor with children in Asgard, and he had such an easy way with them. Well, if Thor could do this, so could he.

He walked over to where Amy was sitting on the floor, fitting brightly colored plastic shapes into a block of wood with matching cut-outs. This child seemed rather intelligent for her young age, as she was able to put each shape correctly with its cut-out hole. It did not even seem to be a question for her. He watched her for a moment, considering how best to touch her so that she would not cause a fuss. "Seriously, go ahead," Grace called from the kitchen. "She doesn't bite—most of the time, anyway."

He grimaced and crouched down to Amy's level. She turned her chubby face up toward him, looking at him just as curiously as he had been looking at her. They regarded each other for a moment, and then he placed his hands underneath her plump arms, lifting her as he rose up again. He walked her to the high chair, arms straight out in front of him, carrying her as he might carry a dog that had just been sprayed by a skunk, and plopped her down into the tall seat next to the counter, locking the tray table into place in front of her before she could squirm out of it.

Grace looked over her shoulder and, seeing that Amy was securely in her seat, set the spoon with which she was stirring the rice down on the stove. She first reached into the neighboring cupboard, from which she procured a child-sized bowl. She scooped a small amount of the rice out from the pan and then crossed behind where Loki stood and pulled on the handle of an accordion door adjacent to the room, to reveal a small pantry. She rummaged on the shelves for a moment and then, with a little yelp of success, walked back to the stove and opened the small jar that she had obtained on her mission into the pantry. He strained his neck a bit to see what was in it but was soon sorry for it—the contents of the jar looked like something Amy might have thrown up. "What," he asked, wrinkling his nose, "are you feeding your daughter?"

"Rice mixed with green peas," Grace replied, sighing. "I know it doesn't look—or smell—like much. But she likes it, God love her." She mixed the rice and the peas together and brought it over to Amy's highchair. "I've got to feed her a little bit first, and then you and I can eat, okay? Just make yourself comfortable until then, it shouldn't be long."

Nodding, he lifted his glass of wine from the counter and inhaled deeply. It was light, fruity scented, hints of pineapple and peach wafting from the depths of the glass. He put the glass to his mouth and let the cold liquid run down his throat. It left a delightfully sinful taste on his lips. "You may want to be quick," he said. "I haven't eaten, and this wine is delectable."

Grace smiled and took a quick sip from her own glass before going back to trying to get Amy to eat. Grace had gotten about halfway through the bowl, and although Amy laughed through the process, most of the food seemed to have gotten on her face or Grace's shirt rather than into her mouth. He carried his glass into the living room and, for the first time since his arrival, took in his surroundings. On the wall opposite him was a gas fireplace with a mantel above it, lined with framed photographs and a large, oval mirror with an elaborate, gold frame. The wall on his right contained even more photographs, each individual photo hung to form a larger square pattern on the wall. Against the front of the apartment, near the door, was Amy's large, heavy wooden toy chest along with a television on a small entertainment stand. The furniture was not as expensive as Loki might have liked, but it was certainly better than what they had at the boarding house, and the sofa looked soft enough to sleep comfortably. The entire room was painted gray, except for the wall containing the fireplace, which was a dark eggplant. It was warm, inviting, thoroughly Grace.

Suddenly, a photograph on the mantle caught his eye. He squinted, and then walked toward it to get a better look. This picture was obviously several years old, fading slightly from age even behind its protective silver frame and glass. There were four young girls, no more than thirteen years old, in the photograph, three of whom wore their hair straight down. But the girl on whom he was focused had her hair in a long braid that she wore over her shoulder. She had a wide, toothy smile and a dimple in her left cheek. And her eyes were steely gray, twinkling even though frozen in time.

"Grace, is this—?"

"Me." She finished his question for him, having suddenly come up behind him with Amy in her arms. "With my three best girlfriends to this day. That's Rachel, Stacy, and Leah."

"You look just the same," Loki noted. "As if you are just a smaller version of the woman you grew to be."

She laughed. "My parents, they always said I was an old soul. Maybe they were onto something. Anyway, I've got to get her down. I'll be back in a second."

* * *

He did not know how long it was after she left the room, but the moment she did, his head felt like it was going to split in two, as it had when The Other had spoken to him while Selvig had been busy working and Barton had been plotting their movements into Germany. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to squeeze out the pain. He wanted to cry out, to scream, but he did not want to draw Grace's attention. Then, suddenly, his eyes flew open and he was laying on the ground in the same forest where he and Thor had fought over the Tesseract, where he had watched the brute quarrel with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers.

_What in the Nine Realms is going on?_

His body felt weighted. He tried to move, and failed, succeeding only in frustrating himself. He brought his hands to his chest and that's when he felt it: the cold, smooth metal shaped into an oversized hammer, leather-bound handle facing away from him. And then, from the mist of the forest stepped a burly, blond figure, red cape draping over his shoulders majestically. Loki could barely make him out, but he could clearly see the man's crisp blue eyes glowering down at him.

"We need to talk, Brother," Thor said

.


	13. Inside Her Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Grace Kelly by MIKA

"You've made perfectly clear you'd like to speak to me," Loki said, huffing under the weight of the hammer sitting squarely on his chest. "But really, is this the only way you know to get my attention?"

Thor reached his hand out and Mjolnir flew back to him. He set the hammer aside for the moment and walked toward Loki, reaching his hand out. Loki ignored it, pushing himself up on his elbow first, and then climbed to his feet. He steadied himself, dusting the dirt from his dark pants, and glared at Thor. His brother was dressed in his war clothes as if he believed Loki might try to harm him in the middle of Midgard. Even if he wanted to, Loki could do nothing with his powers restricted. He may as well have been human up against the demigod.

"I am sorry, brother, but I can no longer be certain you are within reason when I wish to speak to you," Thor replied, lowering his bright eyes. "And judging by what Heimdall tells me, you are not within reason now."

"I'm sure I do not know what you mean," Loki lied, walking away from Thor to appraise the space before him. Apparently, he could still successfully lie to Thor, despite being unable, thus far, to do so with Grace.

Thor whipped around and marched toward Loki, intent on forcing a confession. "Heimdall informs me that you have taken up with a Midgardian woman. Grace Lawson, is it?"

"And what if I have?" Loki smiled. "Do you have some sort of monopoly on Midgardian women? Or is Jane Foster an extraordinary circumstance?"

Thor glowered at his brother and raised his hammer. "This is not about me, nor Jane," he replied, his voice strengthening. "I am concerned for Lady Grace."

"And what concern is she of yours? I can do her no harm. You know perfectly well the Allfather has taken my powers," Loki spat, clearly irritated at the intrusion into his personal matters.

"All of Earth is my concern, Loki, particularly after the havoc you wreaked here." Thor was growling his words now, as he did whenever he was trying to convince Loki to be rational. It rarely worked, and usually only served to make Loki more determined to play with Thor's mind.

"The girl offered to help me. Should I have refused help given my current predicament? Especially since you have refused me assistance." Loki turned once again to face away from Thor. It was much easier to confound when not faced with looking into the eyes of the person to whom you were lying.

"I have not refused you assistance," Thor replied, sounding slightly hurt. "But as Father decreed, you must learn for yourself what it is to be human. Only then can you return to Asgard."

"And what makes you think I have not learned yet what it is to be human?" Loki fumed. "I have already been subject to humiliations galore. What more must I learn?"

"Brother, if you are humiliated, then you have not yet learned the lesson," Thor replied.

Loki scoffed. "Such a thoughtful, secretive answer. Perhaps you could tell me something that might be useful to me."

"Listen well, Loki. I do not know how you convinced this girl to assist you. But I know she has been hurt enough for three lifetimes. You needn't cause her more pain with your schemes," Thor said, his voice softening. His enormous arms relaxed, and he again set the hammer down. "She has suffered enough, Loki. We all have."

Loki stared his brother down. Thor cared for Grace's well-being, yet he had never met her. Loki was interested in the reason. So, he played to Thor's weakness: sentimentality. "What kind of pain, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

Loki refrained from rolling his eyes in frustration. "You said she has suffered enough for three lifetimes. What could have caused her so much pain that you would come to Earth and knock me three ways from Tuesday last in order to protect her from me?"

"It is not for me to say," Thor said quietly. "I can only tell you that if, in time, she reveals it to you herself, you shall understand my concern for her. Perhaps then you will learn the lessons you need to come home."

Loki hesitated. "And until that time?"

"Until that time"—Thor picked up Mjolnir again and walked to within inches of Loki's face—"you shall be mindful of the fact that I have eyes the Earth over and that if I find you causing any mischief, any whatsoever, I shall come back and I will kill you." His breath was hot on Loki's cheek. "Are we clear, brother?"

"As crystal," Loki replied. "Now, will you please, put me back where you found me, lest I have to explain to Grace why I suddenly disappeared from her home?"

"Be mindful, Loki," Thor repeated, a warning. "I do not threaten. I promise."

* * *

Loki felt something cool and wet on his forehead, making slow dots along his brow. He felt weak, as if the energy had been sapped from every cell in his body. His eyes seemed heavy-lidded, and it took too much energy to open them. He lay still for a moment, trying to recall his surroundings. A moment before, he had been in a misty forest with his brother threatening him. Now, forcing his eyes open, he realized he was back in Grace's small apartment, laying on the floor where he had been standing before Thor dragged him off. She was kneeling over him, pressing a cold cloth to his cheeks and forehead, her own brow furrowed with concern. At this sight of his eyes opening, relief washed over her face.

"Oh my God, finally. Are you all right? You freaked the hell out of me!" She sat back on her heels, the cloth in her hand. He licked his lips, which were as parched as his throat, and he slowly sat up, regaining a bit of strength. "I came back out here after getting Amy down for bed and found you lying here. I tried to move you to the couch, but holy crap, are you heavy!"

He shook his head and felt dizzy. As it turned out, being hurtled to an alternate location via magic hammer took a lot more energy than he thought possible. "I am extraordinarily tired," he replied. "Perhaps—perhaps I should go to bed."

"Of course," she said. "Maybe the wine wasn't a great idea after all. I'll wrap a plate of food for you and you can eat it later or tomorrow if you're hungry. Do you need help getting up?"

He almost laughed at her—she would no more have been able to move him awake than she could passed out—but restrained himself. Instead, he politely shook his head no, and used the back of the couch to pull himself from the ground. He steadied himself on his feet. "Where shall I—" He started to ask where he would be sleeping, but she cut in, apparently expecting this question.

"You can take my bed for the night," she said. "I insist. You're obviously exhausted, and you need a good night's rest. I'll take the couch; I've spent plenty of nights here when Amy was teething and sleeping fitfully. The sheets on the bed are clean, I just washed them today."

He wouldn't have cared if they weren't at this point. He was so tired that he would have fallen asleep on the floor if she'd let him. Instead, she grabbed his two suitcases from the foyer and led him down the hallway, past the bathroom. Then she stopped at a door across from a room with a half-closed door from behind which emanated a soft pink light. "I hope the light doesn't bother you. I have to keep her door open in case she cries," she apologized, opening the white painted door across from Amy's room. He stepped inside and found himself in the most feminine room he could have imagined. From the light, sky blue paint on the walls to the billowy, luxurious comforter on the bed, which was wrapped in a mint green cover, he felt that if the word "soft" could materialize itself, this room would be the result. While it may not have been his own rugged decorating taste, he knew he would at least sleep comfortably here.

"Do you need anything? Glass of water? Pajamas?" She stood in the doorway, watching him sit down on her bed, carefully observing him.

"I am fine, but—thank you. For the offer, and for your bed." Had he blinked, he might have missed it, but he noticed her right eyebrow twitched ever so slightly at this response. She smiled, regardless.

"Of course. Tomorrow, we'll go see my Dad and he can show you your new place. I don't think it's quite ready yet, but we can probably do a walk-through. For now, though, just get some sleep. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

With that, she turned on the bedside lamp on her way out of the room, and quietly shut the door behind her, leaving him to his thoughts. He sat on the queen-sized bed, noting the contrasting firmness of the mattress against the softness of the duvet on top of it. He stood up and walked a few steps to the center of the small room, finally able to breathe and take in his surroundings in the quiet of the night. The bed sat against the wall adjacent to the hallway outside, with a small table and lamp between it and the doorway. There was a window across from the bed, overlooking a courtyard in the center of the apartment complex. A closet on the wall perpendicular to the window sat opened, and from this, he could see that she had an appreciation for fashion, and, in particular, shoes. In the corner of the room sat a large, heavy wooden dresser painted glossy white with an equally large, matching oval mirror sitting on top of it. The dresser itself was covered in costume jewelry draping out of several cigar boxes, numerous baby items, including several discarded pacifiers, and stacks of books, which immediately caught his attention, himself being a voracious reader. He looked at the titles on the spines: "Baby's First Year." "Single Parenthood." "Surviving Trauma." "A Song of Ice and Fire." An odd mix of reading materials by any standard.

He turned and walked back to the bed, kicking off his shoes as he sat down. He laid his head back on the several soft pillows, hand behind his head, pondering his circumstances. Thor's words stuck in his mind: not so much the threats, all of which he had heard before and ignored. No, what nagged at him was what Thor had said about Grace having been hurt. It was not that he cared for the girl. It was mere curiosity. She had failed to tell him about her child; what else was she hiding from him?

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another book lying unopened on the bedside table. It had no title on its spine but was instead bound in hunter green cloth, the same shade as his own battle garb. He reached across the bed and flipped the book into his hands. The material was stretched thin across the binding, and was worn at the spine, but it still smelled new. He turned it over in his hands, looking for any sign of a title or subject matter, but there was none. There was, however, a cloth marker in the middle of the book, which beckoned Loki to flip open the pages. The page he opened to was dated just a few days past.

_Amy is growing so quickly. I really need to take her for a haircut, but I just can't bring myself to chop off any of her hair. I wish it were a different color, though. I think that's probably terrible of me, but it's true._

It was at that moment that he realized he was reading Grace's personal journal. He knew he shouldn't. He knew this was private. He remembered keeping his own journal as a boy, how he had felt when Thor and his friends discovered it, and the dramatic reading Thor and Sif did of one of its entries before half his father's court. He had been so furious and embarrassed that he had cut off Sif's hair in the middle of the night and replaced it with elf hair. He'd gotten into quite a bit of trouble for that, but to his mind, it had been worth it. On the other hand, he had killed dozens, hundreds of people in his last two years of life; surely, reading Grace's thoughts was immaterial to his redemption.

_I called over to Detective Rossi today. Still nothing on that front. Not shocked, really. Sometimes I think I should just give up on it, but I still have problems sleeping. The doctor keeps giving me these pills that are supposed to help, but I can't take them, not with an infant in the house._

Loki's eyes retraced the words on the page. A detective? He wondered why she would be speaking to a detective on any sort of regular basis.  _Perhaps it was for her job,_  he thought. She was a criminal defense paralegal, after all. But why would her job give her problems sleeping?

_I'm going to see Luke in a few days to tell him about the apartment. I feel horrible for him. I still can't believe he's been keeping his living situation from me this whole time. Then again, some people would call me crazy for wanting to help a near stranger after everything that's happened. But you can't live your life in fear of the unknown, and Luke's been nothing but nice so far. I'm still trying to forget how his hand felt, though. It was so cold but so comforting. I shouldn't feel that way—he IS a near stranger, after all. But still, something about him just...strikes me, I guess._

Loki's heart inexplicably pounded reading these words. He snapped the book closed and put it back where he found it, arranging it perfectly so that Grace would not be the wiser. Suddenly, he felt very hot—a drastic and uncomfortable change from his usual frigid temperature. He stripped off his shirt and lay on top of the covers, switching off the bedside light before his head hit the pillow. As he allowed the darkness to envelop him, his mind was still reeling. It had been easy to take advantage of her when he did not know the depth of her feelings toward him, but reading her words was the same as if she had spoken them to him in her own velvety voice. They turned over in his head:

... _something about him just...strikes me._

And just before he drifted off to sleep, the thought occurred to him that Grace had struck him as well.


	14. Love Is For Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: I Want You by Savage Garden

There was a subtle, almost imperceptible knock at the door. "Luke?"

The voice was almost as imperceptible, muffled through the wood and walls. Slowly, the knob turned, the door creaked open, and Grace peeked into her bedroom. Amy was still, mercifully, asleep, so Grace had taken the opportunity to cook a proper breakfast before she went to work for the first half of the day. She wanted to know if he wanted anything to eat since he hadn't eaten the night before. But, she found, he was still fast asleep.

She stood at the side of the bed, looking at him for a moment the way she looked at Amy—with tenderness, the way a mother looks at her child. He slept atop the covers but was not shivering in the slightest despite removing his shirt before going to bed. His inky hair fell wildly around his face, curling slightly at the ends from sweat and sleep. His nostrils flared and his bare, pale chest rose and fell with each breath he took. Long, black eyelashes fluttered from his closed eyes. Grace felt that, in slumber, he had a boyish look to him, much younger than his language and experiences made him seem during his waking hours. She leaned against the doorway and suddenly as if in response to her movement, he shifted and rolled over to face her. His eyes blinked slowly awake, taking a moment to focus. Her face burned hot as she realized he would probably figure out that she'd been watching him sleep. He did notice but pretended not to. The thought of the words he had read before falling asleep immediately popped back into his head the moment he saw her standing there in a set of red flannel pajamas that were just a half size too big on her.

"Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Oh, about as well as I ever do," she replied, thankful that he was at least pretending not to have noticed her staring at him. "How about you?"

"Restfully," he said. In truth, it was the best sleep he had had in months, unsurprising given that the bed was ten times more comfortable than the one he had been sleeping on at the boarding house. He sat up on one elbow and stretched his neck.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Anyway, I have to leave for work in about an hour, but since it's New Year's Eve, I'm only there this morning. I'm making breakfast if you want some. You've got to be starving by now. I'll let you get dressed, but just come out to the kitchen when you're done." She smiled warmly and just as quickly as she'd come, she was gone, leaving him alone again in her room.

Breakfast. It had been months since he had had a warm breakfast. He kneeled next to the bed and opened one of his suitcases, pulling a fresh, dark green cotton long-sleeved shirt from it. He owned far too many dark green clothes, but at least Thor and Jane had attempted to give him something of comfort during his time as a prisoner. The color soothed him now as it always had. Right now, he could use some soothing.

He opened the door and peeked his head out into the hallway. He could smell cooking sausage from the kitchen, and maple syrup. He stepped through the doorway and hesitated a moment before heading to the kitchen. The door to Amy's room was still mostly closed, and he wondered if the child had awoken yet. At the risk of incurring the wrath of a mother who was probably happy that her child was giving her some peace and quiet in the early hours of the morning, he pushed the door ajar slightly. Decorated with pale yellow paint and a yellow area rug, with a white changing table and matching crib, it was an extraordinarily gender-neutral child's room. There was a large, overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room next to a bookcase with dozens of children's books on it. He perused the shelves as he had done with Grace's collection the night before. There were plenty of human princess stories to make up for the gender-neutrality of the room. Cinderella, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Sleeping Beauty. Loki scoffed. Surely, there had to be better stories than these with which to entertain a child. He could have told several of them himself, taught to him by his mother long ago.

Suddenly, a noise gave way behind him. It was the muffled sound of a child's cry. Amy had woken up. And, it seemed, she was quite unhappy about it. He had no idea what to do to calm the child down. She was beginning to work herself into a frenzy, making all sorts of odd gurgling noises, and he was woefully unprepared. What had happened to the small, smiling child from the night before that he had so easily lifted into a highchair? All he needed right now was for Grace to come into the room and find him with her child, unattended and for no reason. He decided he simply must find a way to calm Amy down before she let out a scream.

"I—no, please, don't—err—do you want something? What is it? What do you need?" He paced back and forth in front of the crib. "I don't know how to help you if you can't talk. Children are not my strong suit. I am a king, not a babysitter."

He stopped directly in front of the place she sat in her crib and stared at her perfectly pale little face, and suddenly, she stopped making any noise at all and simply stared at him. He couldn't imagine what he had said to affect this change in her demeanor, but he was thankful for it. Then, he looked down. His hands were fading from blue back to their standard pale peach. Immediately, he swung around and left the child's room and walked down the narrow hall, making a sharp left at the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He looked up into the mirror, dreading what he would see, but to his relief, it was just his normal face, although dripping with water. Down the hall, Amy began to cry in earnest. He heard footsteps outside the door and the sound of Grace's voice. "It's okay, baby, you were a good girl this morning and let Mommy have some damn peace and quiet..."

He felt a pang of guilt, for a moment feeling as though he had frightened Amy into her crying fit. He sighed.  _Get hold of yourself. You are a god._  He opened the door just in time to run smack into Grace, who was now dressed in her work clothes, as she carried Amy in one arm and attempted to foist on a peacoat with the other.

"Hey, you. I was beginning to worry!" She hurried past him, the little girl's flaming curls flying everywhere as she walked. He followed her wordlessly to the kitchen, where she sat Amy on the counter and struggled to get the girl's wild hair under control with a barrette and comb. "Breakfast is ready, but I've got to run and get Amy to my parents' place before I go to work. Please, help yourself. Pancakes, syrup on the counter, sausage in the microwave to keep it warm. Help yourself. Coffee's in the pot. I'll be back around noon. Oh, and if you want to do something for New Year's tonight, let me know. It's New York City, so it's going to be a goddamn madhouse in Manhattan, but we could go, I don't know, get Chinese or something around here."

His head spun. He never thought he'd find someone who could talk circles around him, but Grace certainly gave him a run for his money. She set Amy on the couch, arranged a grey knitted cap on her own head, wrapped her heavy, red wool scarf around her neck, and grabbed a large, floral-print cloth bag from the top of the toy chest. He could see diapers poking out of the top of it. She picked Amy up with her free arm, balanced the bag against the baby, and before he could say a word, she was gone in a blur of color. Suddenly, he was alone with his thoughts again. Usually, he would be more than happy to exist in solitude, but to his own surprise, he would have much preferred Grace stay the morning, give him someone to talk to, or at least to distract him from his own mind.

After he had had his fill of the breakfast Grace cooked, removed some of his clothing from his suitcases, and rearranged the bedding on her bed, Loki realized he had not had a shower in days. He crept down the hall and found a small closet next to her room, inside which sat a neatly folded stack of fluffy, red towels and washcloths. He picked one from each pile and stepped into the bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the water, adjusting it to well over lukewarm. Looking around nervously, as if someone might creep in on him at any moment, he stripped off his clothing and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain behind him.

Standing under the running water, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting his hair soak and the sweat and grease run from it. He felt three days of grime run down his lean body to the drain beneath him. For a moment he forgot all about what he had read in her journal, the fact that she had a baby, the millions of lives he had destroyed in two years' time, and even the loss of the life and family he had known for centuries. For one sweet, disarming minute, he merely existed under the warmth of the water. Still half in a daze, he reached for the shampoo bottle and, when he opened it, it was as if Grace were standing in the shower with him. The scent was light, roses and pears. He half expected to open his eyes and see her small, curved figure standing next to him, hot and wet and naked. In fact, for an instant, he found himself almost longing for it. As long as he had been out of Asgard, it had been six times as long since he had felt the touch of a woman of any realm against him. He breathed in deeply, wishing he had magic enough to conjure her here to fulfill needs he had long forgotten. But was this not the sentiment for which he had so long mocked Thor? These childish, petty emotions had made him so weak against the Destroyer, against the Chitauri. Yet, Thor had won both battles—the thought of which both disgusted and, oddly, impressed Loki.  _No,_  he decided.  _This is a baser desire, a physical longing. This is only natural. Love is for children. This, this is only of the flesh._

Twenty minutes later, he felt clean though no less frustrated.

He stepped from the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist as he went. His hair dripped between his shoulder blades, and he ran his hand through it. It still smelled of Grace's shampoo, and he again wished for his powers so that he could turn the scent into something slightly more masculine. He wiped the mirror over the sink off with his hand, and stared at it, again praying he would not see a reflection of the ice monster that had revealed itself earlier. Thankfully, he saw only his normal complexion and let out a sigh of relief, which pierced the steam in the room. He did not, however, hear the door to the apartment open, nor did he hear Grace calling the name he had given her.

* * *

"Luke? You still up?"

She received no response and figured he must have gone back to sleep.  _Oh, well,_  she thought.  _I need a shower before I pick Amy up anyway._

She removed her outerwear and tossed it over the back of the armchair nearest the door, kicked off her boots, then went to her bedroom. She was pleasantly surprised to see the bed made, but also confused as to where Luke was. She thought perhaps that he had stepped out to get a cup of coffee or a newspaper. Maybe she could finish her shower and be dressed before he got back, and then they could discuss plans for the evening. Eventually she would suggest to him that he start looking for a job, but tonight was not the night for that—tonight was New Year's Eve, and she planned to make the most of it. She had always been a big believer in New Year's being the time for fresh starts, but never more so than this year. It had been a very long, arduous time for her, and this was the chance to write a new page.

Before undressing, as had become her habit since last year, she locked her bedroom door and checked it twice. Then, she yanked off her sweater and camisole and unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to the floor, leaving her in only her bra and panties. She grabbed her lightweight cotton bathrobe from its hook over the closet door and, after removing her undergarments, threw it on and tied it at the waist. Then, quiet as a mouse, she unlocked the door to the room and stepped outside. This was always the most nerve-wracking part.

Seeing nothing and no one, she crept into the hallway and turned left toward the bathroom, stopping at the linen closet on the way. She did not notice that a towel and washcloth were removed, nor did she feel the need to knock on her own bathroom door before entering it. She always kept the door closed so that, in the event Amy started walking without warning, she would not be able to turn on the water or, well, drown in the toilet.

Just as she put her hand on the knob and started to turn, the knob seemed to turn on its own, and she screamed bloody murder before fainting dead away, falling into Loki's stunned arms, pulling his towel down with her.


	15. Truth In Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Sullen Girl by Fiona Apple

"Oyyyy...my head..." Grace moaned softly as she came to, struggling to open her eyes in the bright light. "Did I break anything? My face? You?"

Loki sat on the edge of the bed, now dressed in linen khaki-colored pants and the green shirt he had worn earlier that morning. After she had fainted, he had carried her into her room and laid her on the bed, taking the opportunity to dress himself after making sure nothing about her was bleeding or broken. "You are perfectly safe, and no, you did not hurt me. If a mugger were no match for me, you certainly wouldn't be," he said, a smile creeping across his face at the sight of her eyes focusing on him. "It appears, however, that both of us have a propensity for falling down at inopportune times. You managed to take my towel down with you."

Grace turned every shade of red in one of Amy's crayon boxes.

"I've spoken to your mother," he continued. "She's agreed to keep Amy with her for the evening so that you may rest. I do not think going out this evening would be wise, given what you've just experienced."

She nodded agreement, her head throbbing. She was sure she must have hit it, despite his assurances to the contrary. "I'm sorry, Luke," she started, sitting up a bit against the pillows behind her. "Not just for disrobing you, either. I didn't mean to...faint, I guess? It's happened before, when I've gotten really scared. The doctors say it's a thing that happens sometimes, but it's not convenient at all."

"I should think no one intends to faint," he replied. "I am sorry to have frightened you." He realized immediately after saying it that he had just apologized for something he had not even intended to do. He had rarely apologized for anything in his life, much less unintentional slights. The thought played in the back of his mind, but he kept his attention on her.

"No, no." She held up her hand. "You didn't—I mean, you did, but you don't have to apologize. It's not like you did anything wrong. You're allowed to shower. I'm just not used to having someone else staying here, I guess." She shrugged. Suddenly, he had the urge to do something he had not done in many, many years. Looking at her pale, sunken face, he felt called to do something...kind.

"Might I suggest tea?" He had no idea if she even liked tea, but it was what his mother had always given him when he had been ill or frightened as a child. She had taught him the various magical properties of certain kinds of tea, as well as the healing properties of others. Now, it seemed to be the only way he could think of to comfort someone, as he was not used to comforting...well, anyone.

"You might," she replied, a small smile on her face. "Let me just get my bearings—"

"No," he said urgently, placing his palm gently on her shoulder, and then softened his voice. "Let—let me."

Although Grace had not known him to be tender, the sudden softness in his voice allowed her to lay back on the pillows and the tension in her body to release. He left the room and headed to the kitchen, where he filled the kettle from the stovetop with water and turned on the burner. He then rooted around the cupboards until he found where she kept her water glasses and filled one with cool water from the refrigerator. Then, bringing the glass with him, he went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, where he found a bottle of pain reliever. He returned to the bedroom and found Grace curled up on her side, possibly asleep, although he could not tell. She was shivering slightly.

It was then he realized that she was still only wearing her bathrobe, which was not particularly heavy or warm looking, but in her exhaustion, she did not seem to realize she was lying on top of the blankets. He set the glass and the bottle down, and returned to the kitchen, where the kettle was beginning to whistle. He turned the burner off and, after more rooting around, found her collection of odd coffee mugs and several varieties of tea. He chose chamomile for its soothing qualities and poured the boiling water over the bag. Allowing the tea to steep for a moment, he spied a crocheted blanket laying over the back of the sofa carried it and the tea back to the bedroom. Finding Grace exactly as he had left her, he set the tea down next to the water glass. Then, carefully, as if she was made of the finest crystal and might break under his touch, he laid the blanket over her shoulders and arranged it down her body to cover her feet. Standing up to inspect his work, he noticed that her body seemed to relax, and she sleepily turned her head up toward him.

"I'm sorry, I must have dozed off," she whispered, sitting back up.

"Understandable," he replied. He sat down on the edge of the bed again and motioned toward the tea. "Drink it slowly. It's quite warm, but it will soothe you. I also brought you some medication."

"Thank you," she said, cupping her hands around the mug, savoring its warmth. They sat in silence for a moment. He watched her turn the cup around in her hands and briefly considered asking her what truly made her faint. He wasn't entirely convinced it was the mere presence of someone else in her apartment. However, that notion was put to rest when she spoke. "I think I'd better sleep a while before I try the whole showering thing again."

"I think that wise." He stood up and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. "Do you require anything before I leave you?"

"No, but if you could order the Chinese around 4:30 and then wake me up after you've ordered it, that would be great. The menu's in the mail organizer on the table by the door. Order whatever you want, and I'll take cashew chicken and an egg roll."

"As you wish," he replied, bowing his head before leaving the room and shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

A few hours later, Grace opened the bedroom door and decided to make a second attempt at a shower. Approaching the bathroom cautiously, she found the door wide open, possibly because of Luke's hurry to get her to a soft bed. In reality, it was because he wanted to be sure that she would not feel threatened by a closed door when she awoke. She silently disrobed and turned on the water, hot as she could stand it. She had worked up quite a sweat in her sleep, and somehow, hot water seemed to feel as though it cleaned more thoroughly than did cold. She stood under the running water for a few moments, allowing her muscles to absorb the relaxing pulse of water on them. Her brain still felt as though it had shifted in her skull and was pushing on the back of her eyes, but aside from the slight headache, she felt infinitely better having napped. She still wanted to celebrate New Year's in some respect, even if it was just sharing a cup of tea and talking about plans for next year.

As she reached for the new shampoo bottle, she noticed that it had been tampered with. It occurred to her that she should probably pick up some "manly" shampoo for Luke. She made a mental note to ask later about what kind he liked. Scrubbing her hair, she hoped he had ordered the food when he heard her come out of the bedroom. Her stomach growled, not having eaten since that morning when she had scarfed down some sausage and a pancake before Amy had woken up. Having realized how hungry she was, she hurried the rest of the shower along, stepped out and grabbed her own white towel, which was hanging next to Luke's red one. After toweling herself off, she wrapped it around her hair and shrugged into her bathrobe. She cracked the door open and tiptoed back to her bedroom, where she locked the door, checked it twice, and strode over to her closet. Usually, on New Year's Eve, she would be getting into her shiniest, sparkliest party outfit, dressing herself to the nines for an evening out with her girlfriends. Since she'd had Amy, though, she didn't have the energy or time to go barhopping, and as her friends partnered off, the allure of going out on the town became less appealing.  _Then again,_  Grace thought,  _what's wrong with dressing up to stay in?_  It wasn't as if staying in for New Year's made it any less a holiday, after all. Besides, maybe dressing up would make her feel more like a human and less like a victim.

So, she grabbed her favorite dress from the closet and laid it on the bed, setting to work on the parts of her body she still had control over.

Loki rifled through Grace's bag, searching for money to pay the delivery driver who had brought dinner to them despite the swiftly falling snow outside. He found just enough cash to hand to the driver, who grumbled about the amount of the tip before walking back to his car. Loki shut the door to the apartment complex securely behind him and walked back to her door, which he had left slightly ajar. He was sure she would not have approved of that, but since he did not have a key to let himself back in, he had little choice. Thankfully, she had either not come to the living room while he had been gone or she had come and left the room again without a word because there was no sign of her. She had been out of the shower for at least an hour now, and he was beginning to wonder what was keeping her. He started to unpack the food onto the counter and was just about to pull the re-corked bottle of wine from the night before out of the refrigerator when he heard Grace clear her throat behind him.

If he had not seen her this afternoon, pale and shrunken, he would never have believed her capable of looking the way she had then. Before his eyes, she was simply stunning in a glittering gold dress that hit her just at the knee, revealing for the first time her smooth, bare legs, which he followed down to a pair of high heeled, strappy shoes which matched the dress perfectly. She had put on an almost imperceptible coat of makeup, save for her lips, which were painted a fierce, blood red, and her hair fell in loose waves around her porcelain face, grazing her bare shoulders. He stood breathless before her just long enough for her to notice, and she smiled a shy smile that seemed to run through him as it worked its way over her lips.

"Are we going somewhere after all?" he croaked out.

"No," Grace replied, still smiling. "I just thought, well, you don't have to be going somewhere to look your best, and it is a holiday, after all, so..." He looked down at his own clothes hesitantly. "Oh, don't worry about yourself," she said quickly, instinctively knowing what he was thinking. "You look fabulous. I just did this mostly for me."

He caught onto one word from that last sentence. "Mostly?"

"Well, there is a little bit of romance to this night, isn't there?" The smile she gave ran through him and turned into a shiver sent straight down his spine and into his toes.

"I suppose so, although we operate on a slightly different calendar where I live," he replied, trying to regain control of his senses by changing the subject. "That being said, would you care for some dinner? You must be famished."

* * *

They sat on the couch, nursing the last of the bottle of the wine. Grace had kicked off her shoes but was still wearing the brilliant gold dress and had curled up about halfway across the couch from him. She had just told Loki a story about her last New Year's, when the city had just rebuilt itself from the damage caused by the invasion of the Chitauri. Despite being seven months pregnant, she had gone out to Manhattan to see the ball drop in Times Square with her friends. They were surrounded by screaming twelve-year-olds who were cheering for a singer who neither she nor any of her friends could stand.

"So, Rachel, because she's completely trashed, decides it would be a good idea to start yelling at him to get offstage, which of course is just a grand idea, considering we're surrounded by, oh, ten thousand of his biggest fans. What those kids were doing out so late past their bedtimes is beyond me, but whatever. And all of a sudden, this guy comes up to her and looks at us and is like, 'Is this girl with you? Cause if not, I'm taking her home with me!'"

He raised an eyebrow. "You did not let her go with him, did you?"

"Of course we didn't! No way were we letting her go home with some random dude who is impressed by her drunken screaming," she laughed. "But turns out, he was a totally upstanding guy, because she managed to lose her purse that night and he picked it up and brought it to her apartment the next day. When he realized she was nursing a hangover, he took her to brunch for mimosas of all things, and they've been together ever since. His name's Brian—really nice guy, like I said, and not a fan of Justin Bieber."

During dinner, they had discussed plans for decorating and furnishing Loki's soon-to-be-residence, as well as New Year's resolutions. She had said hers was twofold: to be more productive at work and to be less "type A" about other areas of her life. She had explained that she felt an obsessive need to control almost every aspect of her life and wanted to relinquish some of that feeling in the coming year. He could understand the need to control, but he did not quite understand the desire to untether oneself from that control. In his own life, he was continually controlling himself: anger, rage, sadness, even happiness needed to be tempered within him to keep order. Everything he did, said, and thought now was controlled and measured. When she had asked what his resolution was, he replied more honestly than he had meant to: he said that he wanted to find satisfaction and that he wanted to go home. She had looked slightly distressed by this response but hadn't pressed him further, which might have been wise, except that he was about to press her. Something had weighed heavily on his mind since that afternoon. He was not entirely sure why he wanted, needed, to know these things, but all attempts to quiet his mind had failed. He was sure it was his curious nature that caused the swell of unrest in his brain.

"Grace," he began. "I want to ask you something, but I do not wish to upset you. So, if my questions do that, you need only tell me to mind my own business and I shall." He looked at her with imploring eyes, attempting to appear sincere.

"Sure," she said, throwing back the last of her glass of wine and setting it down on the coffee table in front of them.

He cut right to the quick. "Where is your daughter's father?"

She sighed deeply, apparently expecting this question but not entirely pleased to be answering it. "I've been waiting for you to ask this, but, nice timing, waiting for me to be slightly drunk," she said with a slight hint of sarcasm to her voice. "Amy's father is not in the picture."

He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his own voice, realizing that if he snarked in any way, she might refuse to answer entirely. "Yes, I gathered that, given that you've got no photographs of him and that you haven't mentioned him. What I wish to know is why." The fire crackled next to them, a piece of one of the logs falling to the bottom of the pit.

As she opened her mouth to answer, her cell began to ring, blasting the Ghostbusters theme song through the apartment. She grabbed it from the coffee table, and, seeing the name on the caller ID, went as pale as she'd been that afternoon. She lifted the phone to her ear and stood up, walking away from the couch into the kitchen. His eyes followed her all the way around. It burned him to be so close to the answers he sought but burned him still that he did not know why he sought these answers. Something inside him felt restless as she spoke to the caller. Then, a note that sounded halfway between a squeak and a gasp escaped her lips. She had no words, only the pain, only the terror that rose from her stomach and enveloped her heart. Momentarily, she found she could not breathe. The world started to go black, then white, then normal again.

Loki stood up, preparing to catch the falling girl again, but she wordlessly turned to him, tears building in her bright blue eyes. "Grace?" he said, slowly approaching her as though she might attack him if he moved too quickly. He had seen this expression before, on his brother's face, when he had lied and said that their mother had forbidden his return to Asgard. The pain, the absolute pain, was unmistakable, but he could not think what might have caused it. He recalled his brother's words then.  _She has been hurt enough for three lifetimes._ He thought to the pages of her journal. He remembered how she had reacted when he had called her at her office, of the fear in her voice. And then he thought to her fainting spell earlier in the afternoon. A dark picture was beginning to form in his mind, but he would not allow himself to conjure it entirely. Not until she spoke.

"You asked where Amy's father was," she said at last.

"I did," he replied carefully, watching her icy eyes flicker in the firelight. To him, they looked as blue as his unmasked skin.

"He's sitting at the 20th Precinct of the NYPD. Booked on another rape charge."

Loki stopped in his tracks and licked his dry lips. "Another?"

"The first," she replied, her voice trembling, "was mine."


	16. A Whole Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beside You by Simply Red

He sank onto the back of the couch, unsteady on his feet from what she had just said. "I'm sorry, his first was your what?"

Grace's voice was still as quivery as the moment she'd picked up the phone. "I know. I know it's a lot to take in. But I don't make a habit of telling random people that. And up until a few days ago, you were still pretty random."

He stared at her, unblinking. The thoughts had been playing across his head for the last two days, he realized, which explained the nagging voice in the back of his mind pressuring him to find out exactly what the story was with Amy's father. Ever since he'd read her journal, he had unconsciously started to put the pieces together. But he hadn't allowed his mind to go there until she confirmed it.

She saw his face darken. He stood and walked to the still-crackling fireplace, the light playing on the lines on his face. He leaned on the mantle, resting his head on his forearm. He had not regretted murdering hundreds of people in the name of power and control, but even he could not imagine violating a woman's body in that manner. Especially not hers, not with its delicacy and perfect, pale beauty. He could not imagine doing it himself, and he could not imagine someone else doing it either. Or, rather, he did not want to imagine it.

"Please," she implored. "Say something."

"I am not entirely sure what my reaction should be," he replied, his words cutting her like a blade to the back. "I have no words at the moment."

"I think I need to sit down before I faint again," she said, sinking back onto the couch. At this, he turned and looked at her. She seemed so frail and lost, but he was sure that a cup of tea would not suffice to heal this particular wound. So, he sat down next to her. The silence stung them both. It was a long moment before either of them said anything.

"There isn't much to tell," she began, drawing in a deep breath. "It happened when the world looked like it was ending. Not that day, but the day after, when the police were too busy cleaning up the mess."

A nasty, putrid thought was creeping its way into Loki's mind like a serpent around a mouse, so foul he could almost taste it. He pushed it away, listening intently to her words.

"There was so much looting, rioting going on. Nobody seemed to care about it, at least nobody who could stop it. They were too focused on restoring order to Midtown. I was living downtown back then, near Wall Street. I was holed up in my apartment, trying to avoid going out, but I was watching things on TV, you know? And, well, it was just a crime of opportunity, I guess. I just happened to be the person who left her door unlocked accidentally, and the rest is history."

The thought kept twisting its way through his brain.

She continued, still staring straight ahead, as if seeing nothing but also seeing everything at once, as if her mind was trying to fight off the memory. "Thankfully, I went on autopilot paralegal mode and went right down to the hospital once he'd gone. I think maybe it was my brain trying not to accept what had happened so that I could just...survive it. They took DNA, my clothes—but they forgot to give me the emergency contraception, and I forgot to ask for it. A few weeks after, I started getting very sick in the mornings, my period stopped when it had always been on time, and, well...then I knew. Even before I peed on the stupid little stick, I knew he'd left me pregnant."

Loki felt sick. So very, very sick. But she wouldn't stop talking, and as much as he wanted to scream at her to stop, he knew he couldn't. He had to hear, had to take it in. A million of Hawkeye's arrows through his chest would have hurt less.

"I was miserable for at least two months. I thought about abortion. I thought about adoption. I even thought"—she hesitated for a moment before going on, evaluating his face—"I even thought about suicide."

His brow furrowed and the breath caught at the back of his throat. Without even thinking, he reached for her hand, unknotting it from her other one so that he could fold his fingers between hers. She straightened a bit. "But my parents and my friends were so, so supportive. I couldn't kill myself. But I didn't know what to do about the baby. None of the options felt right. But in the end, they helped me get to the point where I knew it was okay to love a baby that had come from such pain. It was okay if I turned hate into love. And that's exactly what happened when she came. All my hatred toward him, whoever he is, turned to love for my baby. Because she is," she finished, "my baby."

Loki was watching her, his eyes a dark shade of emerald, flicking from her face to their intertwined fingers, her delicate shoulders, her hair draping over her cheeks, back to her face. And that's when he noticed a single tear fall from her eye, splashing onto her gold-covered thigh.

"I wouldn't ever tell anyone else what to do, or that they have to think the way I do. But she's mine, and no matter what happens, he will never take her from me. He took too much, he took so, so much," she cried, her words turning from calm to frenzied in half a second.

He began to panic. Flashes of thoughts were coming at him from all sides now, and he did not have the time to process any one of them. All he could allow himself to focus on was the now-sobbing girl sitting to his right, shoulders shaking with gasps for air as she continued to pour her emotions out through her eyes and lips.

"I love her so much," she said, bringing her head up to face him, as if she needed to convince him along with herself. "I love her more than my own life, and I would never give her up for anything. But sometimes I look at her and am so scared of anything about her changing, maturing, growing, because what if she stops looking like me one day and starts looking like someone I don't recognize? Someone who scares the shit out of me? I don't even know what he looks like, Luke. He wore a mask. That's why I was so afraid of you for so long, because I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know!"

The last "know" came out as a long, drawn-out wail, and she buried her face back in her hands. And then, in a flash of gold against green, she was in his arms, sobbing, sobbing, ever still sobbing, into the flesh of his neck, drinking in his cool skin against her hot cheeks, her arms falling limply to her sides as he enveloped her with his own. They sat like that for several minutes, her makeup staining his skin, him holding her closely, stroking her bare arms, trying in vain to calm her down. He attempted to think back to his childhood, the last time he'd felt comforted by anyone. His warmest memories were of him and his mother, who had been the only person who seemed to care about his fragile emotions. So often, he had felt like a wounded bird, not a quality held in high regard in Asgard. But his mother understood, perhaps because she knew his true parentage and did not expect him to live as his brother or his brother's cohorts did.

Suddenly, it dawned on him: the story his mother had told him the first time he had cursed his own flaws, the first time he had felt lesser than Thor. The first time he had felt pure, mad jealousy and rage. "The Norns make no mistakes," he said at last, clearing his throat as he spoke.

"What did you say?" She lifted her tear-and-makeup-streaked face to look into his darkened eyes.

"Do you know much of Norse mythology, Grace?"

She shook her head, not understanding his thought process. She had just poured her soul out to him, and he was talking about Norse mythology.

"There is a tree, the tree of life, called Yggdrasil, from which the Nine Realms of the universe were born. The Norns are a trio of female beings who, legend says, come out from a Hall standing at the Well of Fate. They draw water from the well and take sand that lies around it, which they pour over Yggdrasill so that its branches will not rot. Essentially," he continued, "they are the keepers of the past, present, and future of everyone and everything in the Nine Realms and they keep life alive within those realms while watering the tree. They also do one other thing. Would you like to know what that is?"

She seemed to calm with each word he spoke, and he hoped the trend would continue with what he was about to tell her. She nodded, wiping her eyes with her fingertips.

"The Norns assist women in childbirth, particularly challenging labors, and pregnancies." He lifted her chin with his hand, and she relaxed at his touch.

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered, still slightly shuddering as the last of her tears fell.

"Because," he said, "I believe the Norns blessed you with your child for a particular reason. I do not know why they chose to do it through such barbaric means, but this is your destiny, Grace. And given that the pregnancy was so difficult, I do not believe the Norns would further torture you by causing you to look at your daughter the same as the monster who gave her to you."

"Do you actually believe all this Norse mythology stuff? Like, is that part of you? Because I kind of like it."

He smiled at her slight lifting of spirits. "I do, Grace. I believe it with my whole heart."

Perhaps it was his tender way of looking at her as if he could bore into her slightly burnt heart with his gaze. Perhaps it was the emotion of the day built up in them both. Perhaps it was her need to feel something other than revictimized. Perhaps it was her need to distance herself from the news she'd just received. Or perhaps it was his need to comfort this creature who was in so much pain the same way his mother had comforted him so many years ago. Whatever it was, it sparked in them both, setting them both aflame.

He flattened the palm he'd been holding her hand with, and she flattened her own against it, studying the size difference. After a long moment, he reached for her face with both of his hands, caressed her soft skin under his fingers. He wanted to taste her lips, sweet with wine and salty with tears, beneath his own. He felt his neck crane downward, his eyes close. He could feel her warm breath near his face, the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He wondered if her heart raced in the same time as his own.

He was so close to taking what he wanted. But in the end, something stopped him. He opened his eyes. In that instant, he knew he could not bear to taste her for the first time under these circumstances, no matter how desperately he craved her. She looked so small and helpless, a dying light in the blackness of the evening. He could not do it. He looked down at her waiting lips, not confident she would understand, but knowing what he had to do.

"Perhaps," he said, pulling away, "in time, you shall believe it as well."


	17. A Little Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: A Little Help From My Friends by The Beatles

"I don't understand," Vivian said, setting down a tray full of cups of coffee at her large, rectangular coffee table. "He did it again?" She, Grace, and Grace's friends had arranged to meet at her apartment two days after Grace had gotten the phone call from Detective Rossi telling her that they caught her rapist.

"It seems that way," Grace replied, glancing toward the living room, making sure she could still see Amy, who was playing dolls with Leah on the carpet. "I don't know much more than that. Detective Rossi is supposed to come see me later today and talk to me about the next steps."

Rachel took a cup from the tray and cradled it in her hands. Her large brown eyes focused squarely on Grace, she asked, "Sweetie, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"What do you mean?" Grace's eyebrows pushed together.

"Well," Rachel began, glancing in Stacy's general direction, "we're just worried about your...stability if you pursue this."

"My stability? You mean you're worried I'm going to go off the deep end again, right?" Grace was irritated now. She didn't think it was so out of the ordinary for a woman who had been in her situation to at least have a passing thought of suicide—even if she hadn't considered it seriously. She thought she had proven she was stronger than that. She was making a life for her daughter, mostly on her own. She knew she was lucky to have her parents for childcare and for her living situation. But it seemed that no matter how strong she was, her friends still saw a broken, battered woman who briefly debated ending it all in the aftermath of a terrible ordeal.

"Sweetie," Stacy prodded gently. "It's not that we think you're crazy or something. Far from it. We just have seen you struggle for a long time now to get to a really good place in life, and we just want you to recognize that a trial might be harder than you think."

"So, you're saying I should just forget about it?" Grace was downright offended, and it showed in her voice. "You're saying I should just move on and let this guy get away with it?"

"He's not getting away with it!" Rachel replied. Her voice quivered a bit. "This other girl, she's pressing charges I'm sure—he'll go to jail for a long, long time."

"Mom? Mom, come on, back me up here!" Grace pleaded with her mother for support, for understanding.

Vivian sat quietly at the end of the table, biting her lower lip, lost in thought. She certainly did not want this monster to get away with what he had done to her daughter—far from it. She could kill him with her own two hands for his actions, consequences be damned. But she also did not want to see her daughter hurt all over again. The difference between Vivian, however, and Grace's well-meaning but misguided friends, was that Vivian knew the importance of Grace's making this decision for herself. She had spent many years as a social worker and realized through her work that rape survivors needed to feel in control as much as possible; to try to goad a survivor into making one decision over another was to take away control once again from a person who had already had it ripped from her grasp.

"If you ask me, this bastard deserves what's coming to him," she said finally. "And if Grace wants to be the one to give it to him, then that's what needs to happen. You've already had enough decisions made for you, Gracie. Make this one on your own."

Rachel and Stacy leaned back in their chairs, defeated by the older woman's words. Their faces remained lined with concern, but they realized they were not going to win this fight. It was clear Grace wanted to do nothing but change the subject. So, they did.

Stacy's eyes gleamed. "So, what about this guy who's staying in your apartment?"

"Yeah," Leah chimed in from the living room. She was laying on her back, holding Amy over her, pretending to make her fly. "Viv, you've met him, haven't you?"

"Yes," Vivian replied, a smile playing on her lips. "He's a lovely young man. Al's showing him the apartment he'll be moving into as we speak."

"Actually, Mom, I wanted to talk to you about that..." Grace trailed off, lowering her eyes. "I think he should live with me."

Everything in the room seemed to stop. If it had been a movie, a record player would have scratched.

This time Vivian did feel the need to object, as gently as she could. "Honey," she began, her blue eyes light, choosing her words carefully, "do you really think that's a good idea? Especially now?"

"Yes, and especially now," Grace replied. "I'll need all the help I can get. There are going to be a lot of days where I can't take care of Amy, and let's face it, Mom, you have your own life, and I could use the extra hands around the apartment."

She thought back to two nights prior, when he had held her head in his palms, when he had told her stories of Norse mythology to calm her frayed nerves, when he had very nearly kissed her, but stopped himself. He could have taken advantage of her pain and terror. She might have even welcomed it, a distraction. But he hadn't, and, as a result, he had won her trust that night, hard as it was for her to give it to any man. In addition, she had already seen him defend against a mugger with little problem; despite his thin build, she felt safer with him nearby. The only thing left for her to do was ask him.

"So, you're just going to let this random dude move into your place after knowing him for what, three months?" Rachel asked, concerned.

"Oh, come on, Rachel," Stacy said, taking Grace's side if only so she didn't feel attacked. "Grace isn't stupid. This guy saved her from a mugger and hasn't tried anything with her in three months! How bad could he possibly be?"

"Plus, Viv says he's got a cute accent," Leah smirked. "When do we get to meet him?"

Grace was about to tell them all to stop acting like yentas, when there was a knock from the front hallway. Their heads all jerked up, and Vivian rose from her seat and walked with her cup of coffee to open the front door. She gasped slightly, and then caught herself, ushering the lanky, shadow-faced man through her door, briefly grasping his hand as she did so.

"Apparently," Loki said, having overheard their conversation from behind the door, "that time is now." He greeted Vivian with a nod, placing his hands behind his back. He was wearing what, to Grace, seemed to be an unofficial uniform—dark pants and a cotton shirt, this time a hard gray. She wondered if he would continue to wear those shirts through the summer, since she didn't think he could have brought much clothing with him in just two suitcases. She supposed they might have to go shopping at some point.

She rose to her feet and walked toward him. He avoided eye contact with her, still clearly feeling embarrassed over his folly two nights prior. She had attempted to minimize what had—and had not—happened, but he was still musing over the situation. Why could he not have taken what he so desperately wanted? In the past, such actions would never have been a question in his mind. She had not seemed to have objected to the idea in that moment. Yet he had felt unable to move, barely able to breathe, and certainly unable to take advantage of the situation in which he had found himself.

"Luke," she began, "these are my friends—Rachel, Leah, and Stacy."

Loki gazed upon the three women whose youthful photograph he had seen in Grace's apartment earlier in the week. They were, of course, much older now, but each still contained traces of the youthful girl she had once been. Rachel was about five feet, eight inches tall, with stunning, almost black eyes, and raven hair to match. She wore a small Jewish star around her neck which matched Grace's. He presumed her to be Grace's closest friend. She smiled through pursed lips, apparently sizing him up. Standing next to her was Stacy, much shorter than Rachel, with nearly white blonde hair which he believed unnatural, and hazel-green eyes. She wore a blindingly large diamond on her left hand.

Leah came in from the living room holding Amy under her arm in a sort of flying position. She had wild curls that were similar to Amy's, but were dark like Rachel's, kept loosely in place by a gold headband. She was about the same height and build as Grace, but had a much younger face, almost as if someone had dressed a teenager in adult clothing. She also wore a rather large diamond on her left hand, but it was not quite so large as Stacy's. Amy squealed and clapped her hands at the sight of Loki, which slightly unnerved him.

"So, this is the big hero, huh?" Rachel stepped forward. "We've heard a lot about you!"

"I would not go so far as to say 'hero,' though I do appreciate the sentiment," he replied curtly. He felt uncomfortable being cast in the same light as his brother. Then, he turned to Grace. "Grace, a man from your—I'm sorry, what I mean to say is, this Detective Rossi—"

"Got it," she replied. "Can you tell him I'll be up in just a second? Can you guys watch Amy for a second?" Leah nodded and set Amy down on the floor with a handful of blocks before her. Grace turned to her mother. "Mom, could you come with me?" Vivian nodded, lowering her eyes.

"Actually," Stacy cut in, her soft voice resonating in the otherwise silent apartment, "would you like to join us here, Luke? I'm sure Viv wouldn't mind if we hung out here while she and Grace are upstairs."

"Not at all," Vivian said, grabbing her sweater from the back of the chair. Her hair pulled up in a tight bun, she reminded Loki of an instructor he and Thor had from childhood. Thor never paid any attention to lessons having to do with anything other than swordplay, but Loki found Lady Ivy brilliant. She was learned in books, music, and history from all Nine Realms, and he was thankful for her tutelage in Midgardian arts. It was because of her that he had been able to carry on conversations during his exile here. Perhaps that was why he felt an affection for Vivian, despite knowing very little about her.

"Well, Luke? How about it?" Leah looked at the other two women quickly, as if he would not notice the knowing glance she shot them. They returned her expression, and then eyes were on him.

"Very well," he said. He did not particularly want to be in the room when Grace was discussing her situation with the detective, who had reminded him somewhat of Thor. He was darker skinned and shorter, but he walked with a confident swagger much the same as his brother's.

"All right, we'll be back...when we're back." Vivian put her hand on Grace's shoulder led her out of the room. Just before she reached the front door, however, she turned her head back around and caught Loki directly in her gaze, an almost pleading look. He looked away as if he might turn to mist if he looked too long at her. After the door had shut, he looked at the three women in his presence. They each took a seat opposite from him as if setting up for an interrogation. Thankfully, he was not known for his silver tongue for nothing.

"I want to know everything about you." Rachel did not miss a beat and cut directly to the chase. He immediately liked her, although he suspected the feeling was not mutual.

"There is not much to know, I'm afraid," he replied. She raised a suspicious eyebrow. "What would you like to know?"

"For starters, why were you living in a shelter?"

"Well, it's quite simple, actually," he began. "I had a bit of a row with my family. And I decided to come to Mid—uh, Midtown from my homeland. But, having a bit of a problem finding employment in a city where you've never lived proved challenging, so I stayed at the boarding house until I could make other arrangements. Meeting Grace was an utter stroke of luck." He felt so comfortable telling falsehoods, that the last bit escaped his lips before he could realize the truth of it.

Leah and Stacy's faces immediately softened, but Rachel remained unmoved. "So, you just happened to bump into her multiple times over the course of a few weeks and like, followed her home? What are you, a dog?"

"Rachel!" Leah and Stacy gasped almost in unison.

"Sorry," Rachel sighed. Her dark eyes sparkled in the light from the chandelier overhead. "But, really, Luke, you've got to understand where I'm coming from here. Grace is our best friend, and she's already been through a whole lot of bullshit. And then suddenly, you show up, and then this crap with them finding her rapist happens, and we're just...concerned."

He nodded, his fingertips playing the top of the table as if it were a piano whose keys were a bit damaged. He remained silent, playing the game.

Stacy tried a different tack. "Luke, it's not that we don't trust you specifically. It's just that we don't want anyone else to hurt her." He admittedly liked Stacy as well. Though she was not as forthcoming with her opinions as Rachel, she clearly cared very deeply for Grace's wellbeing.

"I assure you ladies, all three of you, that I have no intention of hurting Grace. I, too, care for her wellbeing. When she told me two nights ago what happened to her, I was appalled. I simply do not know what to do for her."

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to figure it out," Leah said, a sly smile on her face.

"What do you mean, Lady Leah?" He chastised himself internally immediately after speaking. He had to start remembering that on Midgard, no one was referred to by "Lord" or "Lady," and women seemed to find it insulting to be called such.

"Oh, I just mean—"

"Wait," Stacy cut in. "Did you say you're having trouble finding a job?"

He turned his attention to Stacy, who tossed her silky hair back over her shoulders. "I'm afraid there is not much market for a man who has talents for books and wit," he said, feigning humility.

Stacy's eyes lit up, and her smile broadened. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong!"

Rachel grabbed Stacy by the arm and looked directly at Luke. "Excuse us," she said curtly and dragged Stacy off into the kitchen, Leah apologetically following behind. When the kitchen door was closed, the three of them stood under the bright lights, Stacy and Rachel facing each other. "Are you crazy?" she said. "We don't even know him, Stace! How do we know he's not an ax murderer?"

"Don't be stupid," Stacy spat at Rachel, putting her hands on her hips. "Does that guy look like he's going to kill anyone?"

"Did Ted Bundy look like he was going to kill anyone? And I'm not being stupid, I'm being pragmatic. Right?" She turned to face Leah, putting her weight on her left hip along with her hand.

"Rach," Leah said carefully, "Grace has been hanging out with him without incident for months now. She's not stupid. She's a pretty good judge of character. She wouldn't let him near Amy if there were anything to worry about. If she trusts him, after everything she's been through, so do I."

Stacy pursed her lips and looked at Rachel imploringly. "Come on, now, Rach, don't you think Grace's life would at least be easier if this guy could contribute financially? And you know what Rabbi Horowitz would say," she chided.

Rachel's face wavered just enough for Stacy to know she had won. "All right, all right, I'll try. I can't guarantee anything, though. And if this goes badly, I swear to God, I will throw you both under the bus and you will never stop hearing 'I told you so' from me."

Meanwhile, Loki drummed his fingers on the table. He was trying to push out the thoughts of what might be going on in the apartment below him, of what Grace was telling the detective, of what the detective might be telling her. He was certain she would want to talk to him about it later, but he was not at all sure he could bear to hear it. He was caught in a space between wanting desperately to assist her, but not wanting to allow himself to take on her pain. His own was so great, he wasn't sure he had room for hers. Before he could start that debate with himself, the three women plunged back into the room full-force, Stacy and Leah looking quite smug. Rachel, on the other hand, looked defeated.

"Is all well?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head.

"That's a relative term," Rachel said. Stacy pinched her arm. "Ow! Okay, look, I'm going to be honest: I don't trust you any farther than I can throw you."  _Not likely far,_  he thought. "But I'm going to do you a favor. It's more a favor to Grace that involves you, really. I'm going to talk to my boss and see if I can hook you up with a job using your skills. Although the wit has yet to be seen."

He sat up a little straighter. "And what, may I ask, is the position I would be filling?"

Rachel half-smiled, a look across her face which betrayed a childlike playfulness within her. "Sorry, I guess I should mention where I work first. I am the head librarian at the Schwarzman branch of the New York Public Library. We need someone, a librarian or even just someone who can speak articulately about the subject, for our Medieval and Renaissance Literature department. It would also involve running book requests to patrons, and maybe a little desk duty once in a while. Think you can handle that, big guy?" She raised that same eyebrow again as if to dare him.

 _Challenge accepted,_  he thought. "Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose. I will win for him an' I can. If not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits." He smirked, and Rachel seemed vaguely satisfied.

"Okay, Hamlet. I'll give you a call in the next few days if I can talk my boss into this." Leah and Stacy, meanwhile, were looking at each other with glee. Clearly, annoying Rachel was something of a joy to them, even if she was their friend. He could understand this. A few moments of small talk passed, when suddenly, Vivian burst back into the apartment, her face tight. Loki barely had time to stand up before she reached him and touched his shoulder gently, much like his own mother might have.

"Luke," she said, her voice crumbling. "I think you might want to come down here."


	18. A Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Don't Move by Butch Walker

Loki stood staring at the closed door, trying to talk himself into opening it. He knew Grace had asked for him specifically, but he could not be sure of what she wanted, nor did he really want to know. He wondered whether the detective was still in the living room and whether he would be able to stomach whatever details might come out if that were the case. Before he could will himself to turn the knob, it turned from the other side, and the door flew open, Grace's watery eyes rising from his chest to his face. Her face was flushed and her eyes puffy. He was sure she had been crying again. Quickly glancing inside, he could see no sign of the detective, which was probably a good thing because he felt he could have thrown the man through a wall. It was this detective's fault, even if only as the messenger, that Loki was in this position.

"Oh, hey," Grace said, clearly trying to hide her shaken state of mind. "I was just coming to look for you." She stepped aside to allow him to come into the apartment, which he did, and leaned against the wall perpendicular to the couch, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. She sat on the back of the armchair, facing him. "The girls didn't give you too much trouble, did they?"

"Your friends are quite charming," he said, thankful for the distraction from the clearly emotional moment. "The taller of them, Rachel, is it?"

"Yeah, she's our resident giant," she replied. He flinched at the use of the term.

"She has offered to assist me in obtaining employment," he said, pushing his hair out of his face.

"Really?" Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling, apparently shocked by the news. "At the library?"

"It would appear that they are in need of a librarian in their classics section," he shrugged. "As it turns out, I am quite familiar with the area, so she has graciously offered to bring me on board, should she be able to convince her supervisor."

"That's great!" She was happy to hear this news. It took one more thing off her mind, and she was pleased that he was able to find something that put his strong language skills to use. "Keep me posted about it. I'm sure Rachel will come through."

"I shall," he said, and then felt the need to ask the obvious. "Is the detective still here?"

She shook her head, locks of hair falling in her eyes. "No, he's gone. He just wanted to talk to me about some things concerning the trial..." She trailed off, clearly still under the weight of the conversation she had had with the detective.

He relaxed a bit after this, and pressed on, despite himself. "I must confess, I am slightly lost when it comes to the laws of this country. You will have to forgive my ignorance. When will this trial take place?"

"It'll be quite a while. It takes time to put together a whole case, and there's also the matter of the other girl to deal with. My trial will come first, because"—she stopped and swallowed hard—"because, well, he raped me first. But it will take a while, because they have to put the case together."

He took a moment to process this. "So, it is possible that this will take a year or more?"

She nodded solemnly. "It's possible, and quite likely, in fact. I've been in criminal defense long enough to know how this shit works. I never thought I'd be on the other side of it, though. I guess now I get to find out whether all the continuances we've argued had any merit to them." She smiled ruefully.

"I see," he said. For a moment, there was silence. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

"That kind of brings me to my next point," she said at last. "I have something to ask you."

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, looking at her through his brows. "Yes?"

"Well, I know you went to see my Dad earlier about the apartment upstairs," she began, choosing her words deliberately. "Did you like it much?"

He nodded. "It was easy to imagine living there, indeed, and much more so since you described how you would suggest furnishing it so vividly." He remembered the discussion well. Grace had discussed in detail the furniture and artwork she thought would please him, where they might go to procure some accent pieces, the colors she could imagine painting the walls. He had not cared much at the time, not being one for interior decorating, but now he wished he could go back to that conversation, before the world had caved in on itself.

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, ridding herself of the last of her tears for the moment. Her color was returning to normal, and her eyes had gone back to storm-cloud gray. From his perspective, this color seemed appropriate. "I'm glad I could at least strike a chord in your imagination. I'd bet that's not easily accomplished."

At this, he brightened a bit. Grace's way of complimenting him sideways was impossible not to find endearing. "Indeed, you are a rarity, Grace," he replied, hoping to lift her spirits as best he could.

She smiled weakly. "Anyway," she continued. "I'm going to ask you something, and I totally understand if it's not possible, or if you just don't want to, but I need to ask because...well, because I just want to, I guess."

"Grace, it would appear you are pre-asking the question." His green eyes twinkled a bit, teasing her.

She flushed again. "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry; I've just never had to ask something like this before. Would you like to skip the whole getting your own place thing and just stay here? With me and Amy?"

He nearly thought Thor had pulled him out of his own body again, as though Mjolnir had knocked the wind out of him. He would not have expected this in ten centuries. He struggled for words, but, as was becoming the norm around Grace, the words skittered over his tongue with no destination. He looked into her waiting, expectant eyes and saw, for a moment, the slightest trace of apprehension. It was then that he realized they were more alike than he initially believed. Perhaps Grace, despite her confident and independent nature, feared rejection as well. Then, an odd thought passed across his mind. "Why would you have me?"

She seemed taken aback by the question in response to her question. She tilted her head and sighed, glancing sideways for a moment, hesitant. "It's partially selfish."

"Selfish is not necessarily bad, Grace, depending on the circumstance," he urged.

She bit her bottom lip and then continued. "Well, it's just that the next few months are going to be really hard, not just emotionally but, like, as far as life goes," she said. "Detective Rossi impressed upon me that this process isn't like Law & Order or something—your life has to go on while you deal with it. I'll have to go to court and then go about my regular life, you know?"

He did not, not really, but he muttered agreement regardless.

"The truth is, Luke, I feel safe with you here. It's the oddest thing, I still feel like we barely know one another, and yet, I feel like I've known you for decades. You're like an old soul or something." She hesitated, and for a moment, debated changing her mind about the entire thing, unsure of herself. But she knew the question had to be asked, and the time was now. "And, you know, maybe you can help me sometimes with the baby, and in return, you can stay here for free."

He groaned internally. He was no father figure. He barely had a concept of what a father looked like, as he no longer viewed Odin as his father, and had killed his own birth father long ago. He could not begin to fathom caring for a child, particularly one that was not his. However, he had difficulty refusing Grace any request, especially after her many kindnesses to him over the last few months. She was offering him a home, companionship, and her friends had offered to assist him in obtaining financial means. He had concerns, though.

"Grace," he began, "I cannot substitute for Amy's father. You are aware of this, yes?"

She laughed dismissively. "Trust me, Luke, I am not looking for a baby daddy. I just meant, you know, if I'm in court longer than I thought and my mom can't watch her, maybe you could babysit for an hour until I get home." Her pupils dilated, she looked positively innocent, a white witch. And from her lips came the word he could not resist only when she spoke it. "Please?"

He found himself nodding agreement before he could stop himself. A smile spread across her ruddy face and found its way to his icy bones from across the room. Suddenly, she was at his side, quick as a whip, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.

"Thank you," she whispered into his neck, her warm breath sending blasts of heat through his body. She stood on her toes and rested her chin on the top of his shoulder, and he noticed his hands had found their way to her lower back. "This means more to me than you can know."

Her hair swept into his face now, and he took the opportunity to inhale deeply of her. He picked up the scent of her shampoo, but also a hint of cotton candy, which he suspected was her perfume. He noticed how soft and thick her dark auburn hair was. Moving one hand up her back, over her shoulders, he enmeshed his long fingers through it. For a long time, neither of them made the effort to move, enjoying the contrasting temperatures of each other's bodies. He felt the trepidation melt away from him more and more for each moment he spent pressed into her.

Meanwhile, Grace felt as she had two nights ago: on fire, despite the iciness of his skin. He smelled of the soap she had bought for him at the grocery store yesterday, pine and cedar. It was masculine but endearing, as if she could live where the scent came from. His one hand in her hair nearly felt painful, but perfectly placed at the same time, as if it belonged there all along. She wanted to express to him how appreciative she was of his agreement, that she trusted him enough to keep his word, and that she meant to make it up to him after this whole thing was over. But she also wanted to be clear about her intentions, what they were and were not. She meant what she'd said to him: she wasn't looking for a father for Amy. She had her life together and did not want anything to interfere with it. After all, the trial was going to be disruptive enough.

After a long while, she pulled back and slid her fingers down the length of his arms, his hands following her lead until she was able to grasp them in her own. She looked upward, toward the ceiling, let out a deep exhale, and then said, "Oh! The bedroom!"


	19. Melting Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Fire Inside the Man by Savage Garden

"Bedroom?" After he'd caught his breath, Loki's voice cracked. Had Grace said what he thought she'd said? He was not going to initiate physical intimacy with her, not when she had been so damaged in the past, but he was not entirely sure he could turn down an advance from her. The very idea frightened him.

She dragged him by the hand, past the bathroom and her bedroom. At the end of the hall was a brightly colored, silky tapestry with the image of a phoenix imprinted into it hung over a door that he had not noticed before. It was kept closed, like the other doors in her home. "I've been using this room as storage, which is part of why the door is shut. Please don't judge me."

She pushed aside the tapestry and opened the door. He stepped over the threshold into a cluttered jumble of a room, filled with stacked large plastic containers, cardboard boxes, and a rather large wardrobe sitting in the corner. A window sat on the same wall as the window in her room and overlooked the same courtyard, letting the afternoon sun illuminate the hardwood floor beneath them. Other than the wardrobe, the room was devoid of furniture. He turned in a circle, and then faced Grace, who was also looking at the room as if she hadn't seen it before.

"We'll have to get you a bed, obviously. And I'll get this crap out of here and put it—I don't know, I'll figure something out. It's mostly books, really, and my summer clothes in that wardrobe, but I can clear that out, too. At least that way you can get your stuff out of the suitcases. We can get some paint, too, if you'd like, and put up some artwork. I bet we could find some fun things in the city at the consignment shops there." She was speaking briskly, in hushed tones, and looked around the room as if she could already picture it in her mind.

"You do not have to remove your books," he suggested. "In fact, I would prefer to get a bookshelf and keep them on it. I do miss having the written word at my disposal, and you seem to have quite the collection." He observed that there were at least ten clear containers which held an immeasurable number of thick books.

"I promise, my taste in books is total shit," she laughed and moved further into the room, toward the window. "But you're welcome to read anything you'd like. I'm sure we can find a cheap bookcase at a thrift shop. You'll probably be doing a lot of reading when you start that job!"

He had not considered that when the prospect had first presented itself—for only the second time in the many, many months since he had been cast down to Earth, he felt very nearly excited. The first time had been only two days before. Turning away from the containers of books, he saw that she was staring out the window at the snow-covered courtyard. The light illuminated her silhouette and he caught his breath in his throat staring at the curve of her hips, her breasts, the slight frizz of her hair.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" She sighed, with something like longing in her throat. "When I was little, my Dad used to bundle me up in tons of clothes and take me with him when he'd go visit other properties...but all I ever wanted to do was play in the snow on the way there. I know lots of people hate New York in the winter, but I honestly think it's one of the most beautiful seasons. Everything is cold, crisp...dead, but not dead at the same time. Like everything is just waiting to come back to life."

He stood next to her, gazing out the window as well. The frost had lined the panes, but through the icy frame, he could see an undisturbed blanket of snow in the yard, having just fallen that morning. He could feel the tiniest draft coming from the window, and the freezing temperature contrasted with the warmth she radiated from her body.

For a few minutes, they stood that way, in quiet contemplation. Then, suddenly, she jumped, and he jumped with her. "You know what I just realized?"

"Now, really, how would I know that?" Loki smirked.

"You're hilarious," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. "I just realized that there is a ton of snow outside, and I haven't taken Amy out to play in it yet!" He raised an eyebrow. At the very least, he felt comfortable in the snow. "Come on, let's go get her from my mom's place. I want to tire her out, so she'll sleep through the night, and at least this way we have an excuse to act like kids!" She was positively giddy, and after the last few days, he was happy to see her smile so broadly. It infected his soul like a beautiful disease.

* * *

"Holy crap, it's cold. Thank God the sun's out," Grace yelped, stepping into the frigid mid-winter air. She held Amy close to her, radiating her body heat onto her daughter, who seemed not to know what was going on. Amy had been bundled in a thick blue parka, woolen mittens, tiny fur-lined boots, and about three layers of clothing to insulate her from the oppressive chill. The bare trees held the snow in their branches as a lover holds a partner, a firm but delicate grasp. The small metal benches with white latticework were covered with a thick, wet layer of it. It was the one place Loki felt he belonged, in nearly sub-zero temperatures, blending in with the rest of the frost. He pulled his coat collar up and tightened the scarf around his neck and dragged the sled behind him as Grace carried Amy to the center of the yard.

The flame-haired girl giggled from under her knitted cap as Grace pulled her around in the sled, making muffled claps with her mitten-covered hands. She laughed in earnest when Grace threw a snowball at Loki, who expertly dodged it, pretending not to enjoy himself. After a few minutes more of pulling Amy in her sled, Grace picked her up and, without so much as one word, handed her to Loki. He reluctantly took the child and held her on his knee as he crouched in the snowdrift. Then, Grace proceeded to fall backward, a white cloud erupting around her as she waved her arms and legs back and forth. He picked Amy up, balancing her on his hip as he had seen Grace do a hundred times, although significantly more awkwardly, and approached where she lay. Pink-cheeked and breathless, she looked absolutely content with herself. He looked down at her and realized that she had made the outline of an angel in the snow.

It was all perfectly Grace.

"Come on, your turn!" She jumped up to admire her work, pulling Amy back from his arms.

Never had he wanted so much to retain possession of a baby. He stood in his place, arms folded across his chest. "No. Absolutely not!"

"Oh, come on, are you scared of getting a little wet?" Grace teased him.

He did not find it funny and pursed his thin lips. "I am not a child, and I will not act as though I am."

"Funny, the way you're acting right now, you could have fooled me!" She smiled playfully at him. "I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Standing in the snow, gloved hand pushing up the brim of her hat, she looked so youthful and happy after several days of misery that he could hardly put up much of a fight. He rolled his eyes dramatically and lowered himself into the snow, next to where she had lain, the cold barely piercing his skin. He mimicked her movements, and could hear Grace talking to Amy: "See, sweetie, he's not so bad, is he?"

 _Am I not?_  he thought, continuing to wave his appendages through the snow. Once he was satisfied that he had made enough of an impression, he climbed to his feet, nearly slipping on the way up, and looked back upon his work. His angel was much larger than Grace's all the way around, but hers looked more delicate, like it belonged where she'd left it. His looked out of place, like something dark and destructive that somehow made its way into the heavens.

Grace strode beside him, holding Amy close to her body. "Well, I guess we know who's winning the epic battle of the snow angels, don't we?"

He smiled. It was one of the only battles he'd ever won. "Shall we go inside, Grace? It is getting colder, and Amy is probably growing weary."

She nodded, reaching back for the sled. Just then, he ran behind her, presumably to grab it himself. She turned away and immediately felt something cold and wet hit the back of her hair which hung low out of her hat. She turned and saw him standing next to the sled, dusting the snow from his gloved hands, looking at her with feigned innocence.

"You little shit!" Grace let out a hearty laugh. "And here I thought you didn't like snow."

"On the contrary, my dear," he replied, an impish grin on his face. "It is where I am most comfortable."

* * *

"Cocoa?" Grace asked, setting Amy in her highchair to begin the arduous process of removing her wet clothing. She hadn't even bothered to take off more than her hat and scarf which she had discarded on the back of the couch on their way in. Loki picked them up and hung them on the coat rack, along with his own outerwear. He removed his shoes and set them next to the door and sat down on one of the stools at the counter, alongside Amy.

"Need you ask?"

"I see your point," she replied, lifting one of Amy's sweaters over her head. The little girl struggled against her mother but seemed infinitely happier once the shirt was removed. She turned her head to him and smiled a wide, innocent grin. Grace continued to strip the little girl layer by layer until she was in only a diaper and t-shirt.

"That'll do for now," she said, satisfied with her work. She emptied a tiny box of Cheerios onto the tray in front of Amy. Then, she reached into an upper cabinet near the stove and pulled out a container of cocoa powder.

"May I assist?" He was standing directly behind her, making her jump in surprise.

"Jesus, do you ever not sneak up on people?" she gasped.

"It is not my intention most of the time, but it seems to happen that way."

She squeezed past him to get the milk from the fridge. "Well, you'll be a barrel of laughs in a library," she observed. "Yes, you can help." She brought the milk back to the stove and eyeballed the amount she poured into the saucepan. Then, she handed him a whisk.

"Stir that," she said. He was not accustomed to being ordered about, but when Grace did it, it did not feel like an order so much as a definite request. She poured some vanilla extract into the mixture as he stirred and turned the heat on under the pan. Slowly, the mixture began to melt under his touch. He wondered how someone had initially devised the recipe for cocoa. Milk, chocolate, vanilla, a hint of salt, sugar, and a touch of chili powder—ingredients which, on their faces, did not seem to belong together but when mixed made the most delectable treat. And then he wondered if interactions between individuals from different realms worked similarly. Although he never would have placed himself in a home with a woman and a baby, somehow, he felt, he belonged here.

Amy crunched on the cereal behind them, and Grace watched him stir. "You need to go a little quicker," she said, suddenly placing her hand over his on the whisk, speeding up his pace for him. "Like this."

She smiled up at him, unaware that as she moved his hand, she stirred his heart.


	20. Two Weeks Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: So Close by Jon McLaughlin
> 
> (please note: some suspension of medical disbelief is required here - anxiety attacks CAN cause fainting if you hyperventilate enough, although it's not common. So please bear with this particular fictional license).

Loki stood outside the gargantuan marble building, staring at the set of lions on either side of the entrance. It was an impressive building and looked to be centuries old, though he knew it was far less than that. He climbed the dozens of stairs to the relatively small doors set back in arches of stone and pulled one side open, stepping into the rotunda, a blast of warm air hitting him in the face. He reached into his black shoulder bag and checked, for the seventh time, to be sure the papers he needed were still there.

In the two weeks that had passed since Rachel had called him offering the job, Grace had taken great pains in assisting him in obtaining the necessary documents for employment in her country. As these were the only copies he had, he was obsessively protective of them. Until he officially began his employment, he was still beholden to Grace, and much as he enjoyed having the freedom to do what he pleased, when he pleased, he preferred not to be in anyone's debt. At least by having a job, he would be able to contribute to his living situation. If nothing else, he would be surrounded by books all day. There was little misery in that. He walked to the enormous wooden desk sitting on the side of the rotunda and an armed guard looked up from his computer screen. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I am here to see Rachel Goldstein," he replied. "Apparently, I work here now."

"Oh, you must be the new guy she mentioned. Luke something, right?"

"Laufeyson," Loki replied curtly. The guard nodded.

"Up the stairs, to your right. But first," he said as he stepped out from behind the desk, holding a broad, plastic wand of some kind, "identification and I'll need to do a quick scan."

Loki handed his recently procured identification card (thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D., he was at least able to prove who he wasn't) to the officer and stepped to the side of the desk. The officer waved the wand over his body, although he was unsure what kind of magic this human could perform. Nothing seemed to happen, and the officer stepped back, handing Loki his identification back as he did so.

"Okay, you're all set," he said, motioning toward the stairs. "Like I said, up and to your right. She's expecting you. By the way, my name's James."

"Thank you, James," Loki replied, heading toward the grand marble staircase, where he nearly ran into Rachel on the way up.

"Oh, good, you're early," she said. "We like that." She was dressed remarkably unlike any librarian he had ever seen. Her hair fell loosely around her face, down to her neckline, framed by a button-down striped shirt tucked into a heather gray pencil skirt and sky-high heels. He was not sure how she could manage to walk without falling over much less replace books on a shelf. He looked around, seeing no one.

"Who is 'we'?" he asked.

Rachel sighed, exasperated. She turned on the steps and headed back up them. He followed her. "Look, remember, I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Grace. So, at the very least, could you try not to be a snarky jackass for five minutes? Good." No one in Asgard would have dared speak to him like that. He held his tongue—not an easy thing to do, by far, but he realized that his financial needs were, at the moment, of greater importance than his need to have the last sarcastic word.

They swung around the corner and went up another seemingly endless flight of stairs. Rachel's hips swayed as she walked, as he had seen numerous courtesans in Asgard do when trying to attract his brother's attention. Loki never fell for that kind of seduction. It was far too easy, too obvious. Thor, simple as he was, had reveled in it until he met Jane Foster.

Reaching the apex of the steps, Rachel stopped to make sure he was still behind her. They walked side by side now, down a long corridor to a row of offices. He took in the sights as he walked; this building was indeed quite old, but not in a decrepit state. Recently restored, it now looked as beautiful as it did when it first opened at the beginning of the century. He wondered what it must have been like to design such a building, to have the imagination to create each element with specificity and purpose.

She stopped suddenly, interrupting his daydreaming. She stepped past the door and allowed him to enter first, and he took a seat at the desk sitting in the center of the office. She followed him in and shut the door behind her, which echoed through the enormous halls of the upper floor. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk, Rachel asked for his paperwork, which he produced from his bag. She put it through a machine which seemed to be scanning it into the computer on her desk, and then handed him back the hard copies.

"So, your primary function, at least for the time being, is going to be retrieving books from the Medieval and Renaissance collection for researchers in the Rose Room upstairs. When you get familiar enough with that collection, we can put you down in circulation and you can help with that too. For now, you are basically going to be in a cave full of old books. Think you can handle that?"

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, pursing her lips as she did when she first met him. She obviously did not trust him, nor did she really have a reason to. He did not expect everyone in Grace's life to understand her relationship with him.  _Relationship._  Is that what they had?

"I can certainly 'handle that,' Ms. Goldstein," he replied. "What do I need to know in order to do this job well?"

"First thing, my name is Rachel, not Ms. Goldstein," she replied, startled by his formality, but not looking up from the computer. "Second thing, all you really need to know is how to alphabetize. So long as books are logged in and out of the collection and are put back where they belong, you should be okay. If you move into circulation, we'll discuss that then. For now, just don't screw up the alphabet. Maisy will help you when you need it, but it's really not rocket science." She stood up from the desk, pulling out a thick stack of paperwork and handing it to him. "Fill this out sometime today or at home tonight and get it back to me by the end of the week. After six months, you're eligible for the health insurance package—"

"Oh, that will not be necessary," he replied. Any illness he might get, no doctor on Midgard would be able to cure.

"All righty, then. No health insurance for Iron Man," she said with skepticism. He suppressed a grimace at the mention of Tony Stark's alter ego. "Any other questions before I show you around?"

At this, he smirked. "Where do we start?"

* * *

Grace sat at her desk, distracted. She knew Luke was starting his new job that day and found herself more concerned with what he might be doing than with her own work. She idly tapped a pen against her desk, drawing the ire of the girl who sat on the opposite cube wall from hers. Picking up her phone again, she reviewed her text messages with Rachel from the night before:

_So, what are your plans for Luke tomorrow?_

_Why, are you afraid I'm going to beat him over the head with a rare book?_

_No, I worry that you'll torture him first._

_I promise, I'll be good. Mostly._

_See, it's the 'mostly' that scares me._

_I still don't know why you trust this guy so much, so quickly, but like Leah and Stacy said, you're a big girl. I promise I won't mess with him. Too much._

_Somehow, I am still not comforted._

She sighed. It wasn't that she didn't believe Rachel would be professional; on the contrary, Rachel was the consummate professional at her job. But Grace knew that Rachel was the most protective of her friends, and the least likely to trust just any guy. It had taken her months to agree to date Brian on a regular basis because she was too busy trying to figure out if he was trustworthy. After what Grace had been through, she was not surprised that Rachel didn't trust Luke, but it didn't make it any easier imagine her raking him over the coals.

Only a few hours remained in the day, and she still had a pile of work in front of her. She flipped through her to do list: two motions opposing continuances, a motion to suppress evidence in a stop-and-frisk, and a trial brief which was due next Friday, but which she hadn't even started revising. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy her job. However, lately, she had found it more and more difficult to assist in the defense of people who were most likely guilty but going to get off on technicalities. Unlike defense, there was no way to manipulate the facts and evidence from a prosecutorial standpoint. The prosecution had to play by rules that the defense could exploit, nearly without limitation or consequence. The defense could say whatever it wanted about the victim, but the prosecution had to tread lightly with the accusations it made against the defendant. The whole system seemed flawed, and yet, it was all she had to cling to in her own case.

She was holding her phone to her chin, lost in thought, when it started buzzing. Startled, she dropped it on her desk where it made a loud clatter, further annoying her cube mate, who glared over the partition separating them. By the time she convinced her shaking hands to pick up the phone, she had missed the call, but the caller had left a voicemail. Without checking the missed calls, she dialed into her voicemail and pressed the button to retrieve the message.

"Hi, Grace. This is Detective Rossi. I needed to let you know this now, before you heard it from anyone or anywhere else. As we discussed, we didn't want you at the arraignment because there really wasn't a point to it, but since you weren't there, you need to know—McAndrews was released on bail. I know this isn't optimal news, and you're probably cursing my name right now, but hear me out. We do not think he's going to skip, but we also weren't exactly planning on the judge agreeing to his release, considering the charges. She did subject him to an ankle bracelet, but for the next couple of weeks, just as a precaution, we are going to put an unmarked car outside your apartment and the other victim's as well. I hope this gives you some comfort, even though I know it's not much. Trust me when I say we want this guy behind bars as much as you do. Uh, yeah, so call me if you have any questions or just need to yell at someone. My number's 212-580-6411, extension 111. Okay, bye."

A click and the line went dead. Grace was still holding the phone to her ear, trying to unhear everything she had just heard. She felt weight bearing down on her chest from an invisible force, but she could not stop breathing harder with each passing second. Her throat felt like there was something lodged in it. Her ears started ringing, and she dropped the phone on the desk. The last thing she saw was her cube mate standing up angrily, annoyed at yet another disturbance in the quiet of the office.

And then, the world went white.

* * *

"She'll be okay," someone was saying, in a soft, kind voice. "She just had a panic attack."

"I thought these were over. Didn't they give her something when everything first happened?"

"It appears that way, from her records," Mr. Soft Voice said. "But that doesn't mean she's been taking it. She's sedated right now, and she should be under for a while..."

She heard a baby's squeal across the room, and immediately, she recognized it as Amy.  _Oh my God, Amy. I forgot to pick her up from my mother's house! I have to go, I'm late!_  She struggled to sit up, but her entire body felt as though she were moving underwater. Slowly, she pushed her eyes open, but the room was blurred, and it was impossible to see anything other than vague outlines of bodies and a room washed in white. She could hear the soft beeping of a machine next to her, and her left arm felt deathly cold.

"Amy..." Her voice even felt heavy.

The next thing she knew, the outline of three bodies were at her side. One of them was wearing white. Suddenly, a bright light shone in her eyes, and for a moment, she thought he was an angel beckoning her to come with him, to move on, to leave her life and her daughter and her family and friends behind, to go where it was warm and happy and she wouldn't have to deal with the frights of the world again.

"Grace? Can you move your eyes left and right for me?"

It was a struggle, but she did as she was asked. When the light moved away, her eyes began to focus again. The slow realization hit her—she was in a hospital room. She looked from side to side and saw her parents, her mother cradling Amy in her arms, and a tall, blond doctor leaning over her. Her father was holding her hand gently.

"What the hell happened?" she croaked out.

"You had an anxiety attack, sweetie," Vivian said, the lines in her forehead slowly fading as she realized her daughter was still alive and able to communicate. "You hyperventilated, passed out, and then you hit your head. Maybe you can tell us what triggered it later. For now, you just rest."

"Amy—is she okay?"

"She's just fine, sweetheart," her father said, his voice a loud boom next to Vivian's. Or maybe it just sounded that way to Grace because her head was still swimming. "We've got her, and she's okay. And so are you."

The doctor chimed in. "We're going to keep you overnight for observation, and you can go home tomorrow. We gave you something for pain—actually, I'm not even sure how you woke up at all—so you'll probably feel a bit groggy. But you're okay for now, and we'll get you home as soon as we can."

Grace nodded just enough to communicate comprehension. The doctor nodded to her parents, turned on his heel, and left the room, stopping a nurse to speak with her on his way out.

"I'm going to get a cup of coffee, Viv," Al said, still holding Grace's hand. "Do you want anything?"

"I'm all right, I'll stay here with her," Vivian replied, kissing the air in Al's direction. He leaned over Grace and kissed her on the forehead, wiping the sweat from her brow as he did so, and then left the room, heading for the cafeteria. Vivian pulled a chair over to the bedside with her free hand and sat down, putting Amy in her lap.

Grace protested, trying to sit up. "No, please, lay her down next to me," she said, although it came out as more of a plea. "I just want to be near her. I was so scared I'd forgotten her."

"Sweetie, ever since you gave birth to her, you haven't forgotten her. It's really hard to forget your own child," Vivian said, although she suspected Grace meant something different entirely. But she laid Amy down on the side of the bed opposite the IV bag, nestling her under Grace's arm. Amy gazed up at her, a concerned look on her face, as much as a nearly year-old child could be concerned. Grace's heart warmed immediately on feeling her baby's touch and smell so close to her heart. Then, another thought occurred to her.

"Did anyone call Luke?"

Before Vivian could so much as open her mouth, he appeared at the entrance to the room, his clothes slightly off kilter, hair windblown and falling out of the tie into which he had pulled it before work that morning. He sounded winded as he spoke, as though he had run the entire way from the library to Mount Sinai. "Where is she? I came as soon as Rachel gave me the message—"

His face drained as he looked at Grace, hooked up to machines, hair matted against her forehead, her skin as white as the sheet covering her. Her arm had a needle in it and was hooked into some sort of clear liquid in a bag, flowing into her veins. He tried to look past the equipment to her face, her eyes, her beautiful, hazy eyes, which seemed to shine despite the exhaustion.

"Luke..." Grace motioned for him to come forward toward her. He hesitated. He did not want to be near her when she looked like this, but he could not stay away from her. He wanted to rush both toward and away from her. But the way she whispered his name made her impossible to resist. He took a few steps toward the foot of the bed.

Vivian rose to greet him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He flinched. "So, Rachel did get in touch with you," she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't know how to reach you directly."

He nodded. "She did, and I came as soon as I could. She sends her best and said that she will stop by whenever you are up for visitors. She also threatened to punch me, ah, 'in the junk' if I did not deliver the message."

Grace rolled her eyes. "Real professional, Rach..."

Loki grinned, despite the circumstances. "I find her amusing."

Vivian looked back and forth between her daughter and the tall, lanky man standing before her. Her cheeks flushed the same as Grace's might have, and she smiled slightly. "If you both don't mind, I am going to go find your father, maybe get something to eat." She nodded toward Amy, who was fast asleep under Grace's arm. "Are you going to be all right with her there, or do you want me to take—"

Grace cut her off. "No, I want her here, with me. If anything happens, I'm sure Luke can handle it for me."

Vivian patted Grace on the hand before rising to her feet and heading for the door. When she reached it, she turned to ask the pair if they wanted anything but thought better of it when she saw Loki pull his chair closer to the bed, gazing with concern at Grace, taking her hand in his. Her eyes softened and she resisted the maternal urge to say anything. Instead, she shut the door, affording them a measure of privacy.

Grace felt his fingers lace through hers as they had under the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, quickly but firmly. His touch was cold but gave her a modicum of comfort. Combined with the presence of Amy nestled close to her, she felt sure she could fall back to sleep just as easily as she could sit and talk to him.

"This seems to happen to you quite frequently," he said, brow furrowed.

She sighed heavily, shutting her eyes for a moment, trying to remember the moments before she fell away from the world. "I remember sitting at my desk," she began. "Sitting there, thinking about you—"

A small grin crept across his face. "Well, I suppose I am enough to make even the most strong-willed woman faint," he joked.

"I was thinking about how your day was going at work, you egotistical ass," she smiled. "I was worried Rachel was being awful to you."

"Fear confirmed. But, as I said, I find her amusing," he replied, running his fingers absently over the top of her hand. "She reminds me of, well, me."

Grace kissed the top of Amy's head, gently so as not to wake her. She closed her eyes again, thinking back. "So, I was sitting there, thinking about you and your job, and then I was reading my texts..." She trailed off, the past coming back to her in bits and pieces. "And I got a phone call, which I missed because I am a total klutz."

She described the message to him, his eyes focused intently on hers the whole time she spoke. The detective's words, telling her that her rapist was back on the street, that there would be police protection, that he was being watched. But none of it made sense to him.

"I don't understand," he said, his voice hot with a slow-building rage. "How can they simply let him go? Shouldn't he be kept in a dungeon somewhere? Why would they let someone accused of this type of violence go free?"

Grace shrugged, blinking back tears. "It's how it works, Luke. Doesn't always work out well, but it's how it works. I've been on the other side of this plenty of times. His lawyer probably argued that he's a pillar of his community, that he's not a flight risk—and if he gave up his passport and agreed to the monitoring, there's not much the prosecutor can do. Although, I do like that dungeon idea."

A tear fell from her face and rolled down her cheek, landing on Amy's fuzzy red hair. The little girl shifted in her sleep, her mouth opening slightly. Loki could hear her soft breaths, and wondered what babies dreamed of. Sweets, perhaps, or cute, fuzzy animals. Miniscule, unimportant, sentimental things. He tried to remember the last time he'd dreamed of minuscule, unimportant, sentimental things.

He tried to remember the last time he dreamed at all.

By the time he looked up, Grace had succumbed once again to the medication given to her through the device in her arm, falling fast asleep next to Amy. The two of them looked very much alike in that moment, he noticed, both of their heads tilting slightly to the right, both of their left hands draped across their stomachs. Her skin was warm, and his hand seemed to tingle where he held hers. Looking at their intertwined fingers, he whispered to no one in particular, "What do you dream of, Grace? Where do you go when you sleep?"

He wondered if she could still feel him, still sense his presence. Then, on the off chance she could, he lifted her hand to meet his icy, thin lips. Pressing it to them, he drank in the taste of her skin, the closest he had been to her yet. And while he knew he could not use his Asgardian magic, he found himself believing that perhaps he did not need it. Perhaps being with Grace was a magic all its own.


	21. Little One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) by Billy Joel

Loki fluffed the bedspread for what seemed like the hundredth time since he had first made the bed that morning. He nervously paced around the apartment, wondering what was taking so long. After the doctors were satisfied that Grace had not sustained a concussion, Vivian called the apartment to tell him that they would be home in the early afternoon. So, he had set about trying to make the apartment as neat, tidy, and comfortable for her as possible. He assumed she would be exhausted, as the hospital did not seem conducive to quality sleep, and so he had made her bed for her, adding some extra pillows and washing and drying the sheets. He sat down in the overstuffed chair in the living room, leaning forward with his elbows were on his knees, contemplating the situation. He had stayed with Grace late into the night, refusing to leave her side until the hospital staff forced him out. Vivian had come back and offered to keep Amy for the night, partially, he suspected, because she did not entirely trust her granddaughter with a near-stranger, despite Grace's inclination to do so.

Suddenly, he heard keys in the front door and stood up to beat the lock. He opened the door and there Grace stood, carrying Amy in one arm and the diaper bag in the other. She looked slightly pale and a bit unsteady, but far better than she had while in the hospital bed. Instinctively, he grabbed for the bag and took it from her arm, stepping to the side to allow her entrance. "Hey, you," she smiled weakly at him. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

He shook his head, setting the bag down on its home next to the door. "I have each Friday off, as I will be working Saturday mornings. Perfect timing for you to have had this incident."

"Glad I'm not a total inconvenience," she replied, undoing Amy's outerwear. The girl was fussy this afternoon, probably irritated by the disruption to her usual routine. "Everything okay here? You didn't starve, did you?"

"I may not be much of a cook, but I am more than capable of asking others to obtain sustenance for me," he said.

"In other words," Grace sighed as Amy crawled toward her toy chest with one shoe still on, "you ordered Chinese."

"So perceptive, my Grace." He was just as surprised at his own words as was Grace, whose eyes shot up and looked directly into his as he spoke the words. They both had heard it, but the question was, would either of them acknowledge it? The silence seemed to crackle between them, static and heat at once.

_My Grace._

"I am sure you must be tired," he said after a few excruciatingly weird seconds. "I shall take watch over Amy if you would like to sleep."

She swallowed, rising from her crouched position and steadying herself against the chair to her right. Her head ducked slightly, she nodded. "Probably a good idea. They told me to get as much rest as possible. Just make sure she doesn't get into anything she's not supposed to. If she gets cranky, you can put her down for a nap. The baby formula is in the pantry and the clean bottles are above the sink. And if her diaper needs to be changed—"

"I'll call your mother."

Grace smiled, the awkwardness dissipating. "I don't know when I turned into my mother, but if I've learned anything the last couple days, it's that I really, really need to calm the fuck down," she sighed.

Thoughts of the first time he had taken care of her swam through his head. "Do you require anything further of me?"

She shook her head and picked Amy up from where she had parked herself, a collection of toys surrounding her. The remaining shoe was now dangling from her left foot, and Grace plucked it off, tossing it to the floor with the other one. She kissed the child on both cheeks and gave her a quick squeeze before setting her back down in the same spot. Then, she walked toward the hallway, stopping as she reached it.

"Luke?"

He turned to face her. "Yes?"

She did not turn around, but instead spoke facing down the hall, toward the bedroom, as if she did not want her face seen. "Thank you. For staying yesterday, and for taking care of Amy now. It means a lot to know you're here for us."

With that, she walked off down the hallway. He heard the click of the bedroom door shutting behind her, and then took a seat on the couch, absently watching Amy play with a colorful set of plastic rings which fit over a plastic cylinder when stacked largest to smallest. He ran his hands through his slightly oily hair and then let his forehead rest on them. Why did Grace trust him so much in the first place? The only person who had ever trusted him implicitly was Thor and look where that got him. He had thought it over several times in the last few weeks, but he could not understand Grace's belief in his goodness, when he had never been good. She seemed to look at him without malice, contempt, or fear as most on this planet and his own might have, given his recent past.

There were many unanswered questions in his mind. The only conclusion he had reached was one which he could not explain, nor did he want. But the last few days had cemented it: his own feelings for her were stronger than his need for vengeance against his brother, stronger than his craving for power. He had been reduced to the same sentimental fool he had long mocked his brother for becoming, but he could not deny it. The more Grace believed in him, the more he wanted to live up to those beliefs. Somehow, making her bed had seemed like a good place to start.

He suddenly realized Amy was looking at him curiously, staring at him with bright eyes. He considered her for a minute and rubbed his forehead. The child clearly did not know what to make of him, and he had no idea how to connect with her in a way to help her understand him. He had to try something, though, as the last time he'd been alone with her, he had grown frustrated and burst into blue, which he had no doubt scared her as much as it did him. So, he scooted off the couch and sat on the carpet, knees bent up, back against the seat, keeping a watchful distance. He was on her level now, and that would do for the moment. Baby steps, quite literally.

She was still watching him closely, with a curious look in her eyes. The way they sparkled, clear as a waterfall, reminded him very much of his own when he was interested in something—or someone. They caught the light in a certain way, and then he saw her mother reflected in Amy's face. He remembered what he had told Grace about the Norns, about his belief that Amy would not grow up to look like the father she would never know. He closed his eyes and conjured an image in his mind of Amy as a fully-grown woman, tried to imagine what she might look like. She would keep her fiery curls. She would have the same dimple as her mother and grandmother. She might wear braces to straighten her teeth as a teenager, but the payoff would be a dazzling white smile. Her chin would become slightly pointier. Most importantly, her eyes would remain as they were—the same as Grace's, grayish blue, changing with her emotional outbursts. He wondered if Grace could now see the same image when she imagined Amy growing up, or if she still feared the unknown.

In the time he had had his eyes closed, Amy had crawled toward him, and was now resting on her chubby knees in front of him. His hands were resting on his bent knees as he watched her reach up, unsteadily balancing on one hand and both knees. Curiously, she grabbed hold of his hand, and at his touch, she let out what he could only describe as a coo. Her tiny fingers wrapped around just one of his, just barely able to close a fist around it.

"Child, you know not what you do," he said to her, realizing she had no idea what he was saying. But she did not let go. It was as if she was daring him, waiting for him to move. He realized just then that he had been holding his breath though he knew not why. He also realized had no idea how to entertain this child for the hours her mother would be asleep.

He thought back to his younger years, to what his mother would do to entertain him when Thor was busy training. Those were the years when he had first learned his magic, and he could spend hours practicing for Frigga, who reveled in his successes. She would know exactly what any child required, even a Midgardian. She could access that child's proclivities and talents and find a way to draw them out.

It was then he remembered that he had brought home several books from the library, ordered in from another branch. He was not sure if she could understand him, but she had enough books in her room that clearly Grace read to her on a regular basis. It couldn't hurt, at any rate. The only problem was, Amy still had a firm grip on his hand and showed no sign of wanting to let go. Hesitantly, he placed his free arm around her bottom and rose to his feet with Amy sitting in the crook of his arm. For a second, he could swear he heard Heimdall's deep, velvety laughter.

 _If I ever manage to get back to Asgard, I will quite surely never hear the end of this,_  he thought.

He walked with Amy to his bedroom, which he and Grace had finished furnishing the weekend last. He had found a heavy wooden bedroom set for sale at a consignment shop in Midtown, and Leah had graciously donated a gently-used mattress to him. It was not nearly so comfortable as his bed in Asgard's palace—if his bedchambers still existed at all—but it was significantly more comfortable than any place he had slept thus far on Midgard. He had selected his customary colors of green and gold for his bedding and had procured a bookcase big enough to line the majority of the left-most wall with his and Grace's books. Grace had also gotten her small oak desk from her parents' apartment and given it to him so that he had a place to write should he want to. The room looked more like a miniature library with a bed in it, which made Loki feel especially at home. The baby, on the other hand, was not part of the aesthetic.

He walked to the desk which was placed next to the window, and reached into his shoulder bag which he'd tossed onto the chair after he'd come home the night before. He had been so exhausted he hadn't even bothered to unpack it. Lifting the flap, he reached inside and pulled out three books, one by one, laying them on the desk.  _Doing this one handed is not as easy as it looks_ , he observed, Amy shifting in his arm. She was clearly growing weary of having her movement restricted and began to struggle against him. He recalled the last time he had been alone with Amy, and how she had begun to cry. How he had not known what to do, and so instead became frustrated and sharp-tongued. He tried a different method this time.

"Just a moment more, little one," he whispered. "We don't want to wake Mother, now, do we?" Amy immediately soothed at his words. He picked up one of the three books with his free hand and left his room, leaving the door open behind him as he had no free hand to close it.  _How on Earth does Grace do this every day?_

As he tiptoed past Grace's bedroom door, Amy reached up and gently took a fist full of his long hair in her hand, not pulling it, just holding it. He stopped abruptly, his immediate reaction being annoyance, even anger, but once again, looking into the child's face, he saw Grace's innocence reflected in it, and his anger melted away. After all, she WAS only a child, and she wasn't causing him any pain. As it was, she was just stroking his hair in her own clumsy way, almost in admiration.

"You are a very strange child, indeed," he said to her. She smiled and shook her head playfully as if she were tossing her own hair to show him up. He continued on his way down the hall and back into the living room, tossing the book onto the floor next to the couch. As he sat down, he suddenly realized how tired he was, having been up most of the night with Grace and then rising early to prepare for her return. So, he gathered Amy back into his arms, lifted her with both hands, and stretched himself on the couch. He laid her in the crook of the arm closest to the back of the sofa, the same as she had laid with Grace in the hospital. He adjusted the cushion under his head and shifted to allow Amy enough room, then reached below him and grabbed the book he'd selected, propping it up on his abdomen and opening it one-handed. He cleared his throat and read aloud, his lilting accent rolling from his throat.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense..."

* * *

Grace opened her bedroom door and looked out into the hallway, adjusting her t-shirt to meet the top of her yoga pants. There was no sound coming from any room of the apartment. Amy's room was dark, and she never would have slept without her nightlight, so Grace wondered where she and Luke could be. Perhaps they went up to her parents' apartment, or perhaps out to get a bite to eat while Grace napped the day away. She wrapped her hair into a loose ponytail at the back of her head as she stepped out of her room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Hopefully Luke remembered to take a bottle for Amy if he had gone to find food for himself, she thought, wandering toward the soft light of the living room. As she reached the doorway, preparing to head toward the kitchen for a glass of water, she stopped dead in her tracks, not quite believing what was right before her eyes. She knew Luke would take care of Amy's immediate needs, but she also got the sense that he was not comfortable around children. At the very least, she did not think he had much experience with them. And yet, the sight on which her eyes were set left her wordless, breathless, and hopelessly, helplessly melted her heart.

The book still rested on his abdomen but had fallen face-forward when his grip on it had slackened. His left arm dangled off the side of the couch, while his right cradled Amy, his large hand resting on her tummy. Amy's chubby cheek rested against the side of his chest, eyes closed in a deep slumber. And Luke's were closed as well, fluttering slightly as they always did when he slept, a tiny but contented smile across his lips.


	22. Spinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiss You by One Direction

"All right, Grace, I just want to prepare you for what's going to happen tomorrow," Andrea Marks said, setting down a stack of files on her desk, their weight causing a slight slamming noise as she did so. Grace sat across from her, nursing a cup of awful government coffee. Amy was in her carrier, napping quietly. Grace rocked her back and forth with her foot as she waited for Andrea to organize herself.

"I know what's going to happen tomorrow, Ms. Marks."

"Andrea," the young woman corrected her, with a slow, rolling Southern accent. Although she was an excellent attorney against whom Grace's own boss had gone against and lost to in the past, Grace had immediately been struck by how youthful and beautiful the young prosecutor was. She was as tall as Rachel, with the same striking manner of dress, with honey-blonde hair set against unnaturally dark eyes. She might have been a model in another life, but instead had chosen the path Grace herself had so often debated. She had been assigned to the McAndrews trial, the next step after arraignment being the grand jury indictment.

Indictments, Grace knew, were a mere formality in the criminal process. The prosecutor was required to obtain an indictment to move forward with the felony charges against Scott McAndrews, the man that the police believed had raped her and the other victim. If the jury in her case convicted him, it was quite likely the jury in the other girl's trial would convict him as well. That meant that Grace's testimony was of paramount importance because her testimony combined with the physical evidence was the two keys to the prosecution's case. Most of the time, the same evidence used to arrest was used to indict, and the burden of proof was much lower. All Andrea had to show was the possibility that the McAndrews might have committed the crime of which he was accused. At the grand jury level, however, it did not much matter because the grand jury usually indicted the defendant.

Grace glanced down at Amy, who had pulled her arm out from under her blankets and started sucking on her thumb. "Andrea, then. I know what's going to happen. I've worked on the defense side long enough to know how this process works."

"All due respect, Grace, working the defense side is different. The defense is never involved in the actual grand jury hearing, so you need to be prepared for my questions," Andrea replied, smoothing the top of her hair back to where it was held in its tight ponytail.

"But shouldn't the grand jury be easier since there's no cross-examination?"

The prosecutor sighed, and Grace imagined Andrea had had this conversation several hundred times in the past. "In theory, yes. But you're still going to have to get up there and tell those twelve people about how you were violated, where, when, the gory details of all of it. It isn't as easy as you'd think. It's kind of a dress rehearsal for the real deal."

Grace looked down at her hands. "Okay, so what do I need to know?"

"First off, be here at 9:30 tomorrow morning, outside my office door, and we'll walk over to the Court together. I don't want you showing up there by yourself, in case there's any kind of press. This guy is an heir, some cosmetics line or something, so I'm not sure how much coverage it's going to get. Second, you need to relax as much as you can. It's going to be incredibly stressful, and I understand that it's easier said than done, but the more you relax, the better your testimony will be." Andrea leaned forward onto her desk. She handed Grace a sheet of paper, which Grace gingerly took. "That's a list of questions I'm going to ask you. Don't feel like you have to have written, scripted answers to them, but I thought it might help if you knew what I planned to ask in advance."

Grace looked at the questions. Some of them were easy and obligatory: where did she live at the time of the incident? Did she have roommates? What was her job? Some of the questions, though, were much more personal and, well, intimate. Had she ever met the defendant before he attacked her? What was he wearing? Did he say anything? What could she remember about him? She sat up a little straighter as if good posture would equate to confidence. "All right, I think I can handle this. I'll look it over tonight in more detail."

"Okay, good," Andrea replied, a tight smile on her face. Then, just as quickly, her face became grave and took a deep breath. Grace felt a nightmare coming on. "There's one other thing I wanted to talk to you about before this process gets underway."

"Okay," Grace said, with trepidation heavy in her voice.

"I know we have a significant amount of evidence in play here, particularly physical evidence, which is important since you say he wore a mask and you can't positively ID him. But I want to be doubly sure we have enough physical evidence to convict this bastard. I've been informed that your little girl there," Andrea said, motioning toward the floor where Amy's baby carrier sat, "is a product of the rape."

Grace felt as though she'd been slapped. She hated referring to Amy that way, as if she were less than human and merely a consequence of someone else's hateful actions. She had just as much responsibility for Amy's existence as did her rapist. Hearing Amy referred to as a "product" of the rape made it seem like she belonged more to Scott McAndrews than to Grace, which was the furthest thing from the truth. Even so, she nodded.

"She's my child, but Scott McAndrews is her sperm donor, yes."

Andrea half-smiled. "Good way to put it. Anyway, with your permission, I'd like to DNA test Amy against Scott McAndrews and officially confirm that he is her father. I'm guessing his argument will be one of two things. Either he'll claim that he didn't do it, which having the DNA test along with the rape kits would completely disprove, or he'll claim you were willing, which we can prove is nonsense with the physical evidence from your rape kit. Either way, he's gone."

"Right," Grace replied. "What would the DNA test involve? I don't want to hurt her—"

"Same way we DNA test suspects: cheek swab. That's all we need. If you'd feel more comfortable, you can give us some of her hair, her saliva, even a bottle she's drunk out of recently."

Grace considered this. On one hand, as she'd said, she viewed Scott McAndrews as nothing more than a sperm donor. He shouldn't get to claim parentage to her baby girl. On the other, if confirming him as Amy's father would help put him away, it would prevent any other woman from suffering what Grace experienced. It wasn't an easy choice. She lowered her eyes again.

"Can I think about it for a few days? It's just—"

Andrea stood up and walked around the desk to sit in the chair next to Grace. She took one of Grace's shaky, sweaty hands in her own and looked her directly in the eye. "Of course, you can think about it, Grace. No one will force you to do anything you don't want to do here. But just keep in mind, we want to make sure he goes away. For a very long time. This could help."

Grace gave one final nod. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Yes," Andrea said, a look of resolve across her bronzed skin. "We're going to get the bastard. I promise."

* * *

Though he had only been at his job for two weeks now, Loki found it entirely too easy. He felt like an underpaid errand boy and thought that most of the patrons could have retrieved the materials they sought on their own. Then again, were that the case, he would not have a job at all. Still, it was not easy for a Prince to do the bidding of others.

The library used a computer system through which patrons submitted research requests. Loki would then collect the books from his assigned department and bring them to the table number indicated on the request. Then, when he had retrieved and delivered the materials to the patron, he would close the request in the system so that work was not duplicated. He printed the request from the computer, rose from his chair, grabbed the list from the printer across the room, and perused it as he walked off to the collection of medieval and Renaissance research books down the hall from his desk.

_"Shakespeare and Politics" by Bruce Altschuler_

_"Thinking With Shakespeare," by Julia Lupton_

_"Hamlet's Heirs: Shakespeare and the Politics of a New Millennium" by Linda Charnes._

_Please bring to desk 56 once the materials have been collected._

Apparently, this patron was researching how the Renaissance playwright William Shakespeare would view current Midgardian politics. Loki had read most of Shakespeare's works, as he was by far the most referenced and cited author of fiction in Midgard's brief history. He found it quite sad that someone could take such interesting and beautiful works of art and use them in such a boring, trite way. He made a mental note to himself to search for and request copies of Hamlet, Henry V, and A Midsummer Night's Dream. He had not read them in ages but felt that it might be beneficial to review Shakespeare's works, since that was the most requested subject in his department. Any reason to read, really, would do for him. Many of the books had to be ordered from other branches, as the main branch mostly contained books that could only be read within the library's walls, but that was fine by him. He was becoming a patient man.

He reached his destination, between two-story-high bookshelves in the recesses of the building. Some of the books were so high that, even with his above-average height, he needed to use a rolling ladder to retrieve them. These books were, however, within his grasp. It might take him a few moments to locate their exact position, but this was the last order of the day, and then he could gather his belongings and head home.  _Home._  A concept which he had not fully understood until he came to Midgard in exile, until he had been cast out of the place which he had for so long called home but had never really believed it to be. Now, it was a small apartment in Brooklyn with Grace and Amy. A place he finally felt he belonged.

As he searched for the books, it suddenly occurred to him that Grace had not called him as she had promised to do after her meeting with the person in charge of prosecuting the case against her attacker. This concerned him. The last time she had had to deal with a situation related to the incident, she had landed in the hospital. When he had heard she was ill, he had dropped an armful of books and immediately dashed to her bedside, eager to ease her pain in any way he could. That time, Vivian had had the foresight to try to get him the message, but he could not count on that happening if something happened again. He did not even want to think of all the terrible fates that could befall someone in Grace's situation. As Thor had said, she had already suffered enough for three lifetimes. He had contemplated this specific question in the past, with more sinister intentions, but this time was different. This time, the potential answers scared him.

 _How much pain,_ he wondered,  _can a mortal withstand?_

* * *

At the same time as Loki was worrying about her, Grace was just finishing her backlog of work from the comfort of her couch while Amy slept up in her parents' apartment. She had wanted to go back to work immediately after her release from the hospital, but her boss would not budge. He wanted her to work from home until after the grand jury proceedings, and then to come back to work until the trial began. Then, he would give her paid time off, as they might for jury duty.

She was thankful on one hand, but on the other, she'd have preferred to be at the office, going about her business as though nothing was happening. She divided her life into two parts: "before" and "after." Her struggle to regain control of her life was not without difficulty, but since she had, she wanted nothing to change that. It was important to her that, as much as possible, life went on "after" as it had "before." Before the rape, she had been a dancer. Not a professional dancer, of course. She was far too clumsy for that. Rather than spending hours on a treadmill every week, however, she chose to instead turn up her stereo and spend half an hour or so every day simply dancing through the apartment, sometimes cleaning at the same time, sometimes just losing herself in the music.

She had not danced since the rape. At first, it seemed there was no reason to dance. She had been too miserable, too lost in her own version of hell, too far into the darkness of hatred and pain to care about anything that might bring her happiness. Then, when she discovered she was pregnant, after she had finally made peace with it and decided to keep the baby, when hate had finally drained from her, she had simply been too exhausted. Finally, after Amy's birth, there were so many pragmatic things keeping her from personal enjoyment: sleep schedules, feeding times, financial burdens. She was happy and full of love, but too busy to think about doing anything for herself. Now, it seemed like maybe there was reason and time enough to dance again.

She threw aside the draft of the trial brief she was revising and pulled herself off the couch. She flipped on the television and switched the input to select the device that allowed her to play music from her computer through the television's speakers. Scrolling through the list, she realized that not long before the rape, she had compiled a list of music to dance to, which she had then promptly forgotten about in the aftermath. Now seemed like the perfect time to enjoy it, alone and uninhibited. She hit play, and the room reverberated with the sounds of Britney Spears' voice against a heavy bass. This was one of the few times she was glad she lived on the ground floor.

Since she had no plans to leave the apartment complex, she had thrown on a simple cotton shirtdress that tied at the waist, leaving her legs and feet bare. She bounced around the living room into the kitchen, where she filled the coffee pot and turned it on for a fresh afternoon brew to share with Luke when he got home from work—which should have been any minute.

The music melted into her body, or her body into music, she couldn't be sure which. She felt energized, even doing a few cheesy moves from her days as a cheerleader in high school. The next song came on, a silly, upbeat one by a popular boy band just as Loki walked through the door. He saw her flailing about and could not help but laugh aloud at the sight. As he had made his way home, he had planned to have words with her for worrying him, but he could not bring himself to be annoyed in the face of her energy and evident good mood. She saw him come in, but the joy running through her body did not leave room for embarrassment. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the wall, arms folded, still chuckling as she approached him, light on her feet. It wasn't until she had grabbed his hands that he realized what she was expecting, and he shook his head.

_Oh, I just wanna take you anywhere that you like_

_We could go out any day, any night_

_Baby I'll take you there, take you there_

_Baby I'll take you there, yeah_

"No! Absolutely not! I said no!" He shouted above the music, but Grace either did not hear him or did not care what he said.

"Come on! It'll make you feel better!"

"I do not need to feel better! I feel perfectly fine! This is madness!"

Unrelenting, she moved his arms back and forth, trying to get him to move with her rhythm, but he protested. He felt idiotic. He had never been much for dancing, even in Asgard where the dances were formal and rehearsed.

_Oh, tell me tell me tell me how to turn your love on_

_You can get, get anything that you want_

_Baby just shout it out, shout it out_

_Baby just shout it out, yeah_

However, all defenses were lost to him in the reflection of her shining, stormy eyes. He could only resist her for so long. Her unabashed, unashamed bliss radiated from every part of her, and Loki half expected sunlight to burst from her skin. Watching her body glide, he felt himself start to give in to her pull, and at last, he was moving with her. She smiled, clearly pleased with herself, and encouraged him to keep going, never letting go of his hands.

_Tell me, girl, if every time we to-o-uch_

_You get this kind of ru-u-ush_

_Baby, say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_

_If you don't wanna take it slow_

_And you just wanna take me home_

_Baby, say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_

_And let me kiss you._

The song was upbeat, the lyrics were silly, but it was still, at its core, a love song. As they moved through the living room, Grace's high-pitched laugh rang through his ears, and he realized how much he had missed hearing it. She danced closer to him now, moving her hips hypnotically, until she had made her way into his strong arms, and he held her close, still moving with the beat, but hanging on for dear life, wishing he could capture this moment in a frame, keep it with him in case it never happened again. The chorus repeated, even more powerful than before.

_Tell me, girl, if every time we to-o-uch_

_You get this kind of ru-u-ush_

_Baby, say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_

_If you don't wanna take it slow_

_And you just wanna take me home_

_Baby, say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_

_And let me kiss you._

He wrapped his hand around her back and took in the feeling of the crepe dress beneath his long fingers. His other hand found hers, and he held it at an angle next to them, slowing their movements just slightly, and he spun her around, twirling her under his arm, then gathering her back into his arms, holding her even closer, thinking he might just burst from the madness of it all. Loki, the God of Mischief, Chaos, and Lies, Prince of Asgard, someone who had once been a murderer, a madman, and all it took to tame him was dancing, dancing, still dancing with his own personal goddess—

_Tell me, girl, if every time we to-o-uch_

_You get this kind of ru-u-ush_

—and they were both breathing rather heavily from the exertion, but for the first time in a very long time, Grace was not thinking about the past, nor was she thinking of the future. For the first time in a very long time, she felt spontaneous, weightless, and even a little bit dangerous—

_If you don't wanna take it slow_

_And you just wanna take me home_

—and before Loki could even think about it, and before Grace's mind could tell her all the reasons it was a bad idea, before either of them could talk themselves down, he spun her into a low, deep dip on his left side. With her arms around his neck for support, she craned her neck up, closed her eyes, and their lips met, a wave of ice and heat surging around them, both their hearts crashing against their chests so hard that it was impossible to tell whose heartbeat was whose, or maybe it didn't even matter anymore because they were already one and the same—

 _And let me kiss you_.


	23. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Save Me From Myself by Hanson

He lifted her up but never let her go. One hand remained wrapped around her waist, the other lifted to cup her face delicately. Loki felt her cool skin under his touch, how she trembled slightly, the way her arms tightened around his neck as he drew her closer to him. He sucked gently on her lower lip and heard her moan softly under her breath, which only served to make him want her more. Even now, he desperately needed to be closer still to her. His tongue explored her mouth as if trying to drink her, dancing with hers as they had danced to the song.

Grace's lips tingled as if brushed by peppermint as they moved against his. She could barely breathe and could not think, at least not about anything except that he tasted like red, heat and cinnamon and cherries taken all at once. She felt tiny explosions deep in her belly though she had believed that valve shut off long ago. Her pulse raced in time with his, and she pressed against him firmly, feeling his heartbeat flutter against her chest.

By now, the song had changed, its beat pulsing, vibrating the floor beneath them. He shifted against her, moving his hand up and down her back, feeling the lines of her shoulder blades beneath her dress. He was sure if he opened his eyes that the moment would disappear before them, despite a sincere desire to open them and watch her kiss him back. Then, just as if she had read his mind, Grace suddenly pushed him back, gently but firmly, breaking the seal of their mouths. As the kiss broke, he was certain he could see sparks literally fly.

"Luke..." She gasped for air, breathless from the intensity of the kiss. He gazed down at her, his eyes wild with passion, and saw that her eyes were shining sapphire. However, taken with the rest of her face, he was not sure that she returned his emotion quite as much.

"Grace?" Her name on his lips made her shiver with desire, which in turn set off several alarms in her head.

She lowered her head, staring at her painted toenails. "I can't—" she replied, shaking her head and turning away from him. "I'm sorry."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"That's what I said."

"No, what I mean to say is, I don't understand," he said, trying to comprehend what she was saying just as much as what she was not. He dared not move toward her but remained steadfast in his quest for understanding. "Do you not feel toward me as your kiss suggested?"

"I don't know what I feel," Grace cried. "Except for terrified."

"Terrified?" The word dug into his ears like a dagger. "What have I done to terrify you? I have never laid a hand on you, never so much as raised my voice to you—"

"No, you haven't," she said. Her words were measured and even, as if she were trying not to lose control. "Everything about this situation terrifies me, Luke. I wish this were easy for me, I wish I were like any other girl, but I'm not. I have had to work twice as hard to have control over my life than anyone else has to work to have control over their own, and then you show up and turn everything upside down. I'm not saying it's good or bad, but it's different, and for me, different is terrifying." Her hands flew to her face, rubbing her eyes and then massaging her temples. She turned back around but still refused to look at him, arms wrapped around herself in a tight hug.

He could not tell for certain, but believed she was crying again. Unlike in the past, however, he felt responsible this time, and this, more than anything he had done in his life to cause others pain, he could not bear. He sunk down into the armchair next to where he stood, unable to work words from his tongue to the air. He wanted to go back in time to five minutes before, when he was kissing her, so that he could keep his mouth on hers for just a bit longer, so that he could prove to her what she needed to know—that he could never intentionally cause her pain.

Grace twisted inside. She knew what she felt toward him was real, but that made it all the more dangerous. She had struggled for nearly a year to create what there was of a normal life for her and Amy. She did not want to risk that normalcy for what she could only consider a hormonal reaction to a stressful situation. Then again, she still could not explain the reason she felt so drawn to him, why she had felt drawn to him from the moment they had first met that night in the park. She could not explain why she felt the need to keep seeing him night after night, why she insisted on helping him when she found out he was homeless. She could not explain why she wanted him to stay with her, why it comforted her when he stayed with her in the hospital, why her heart flew to her throat when she saw him splayed out in slumber with Amy across his chest.

Finally, she looked up into his pained, eager eyes. "Luke, it's not that I don't feel things for you. But it's not easy for me. It doesn't come as easy for me as it does for you."

At this, Loki's brain burst open and his mouth, unfortunately, followed suit. "You think it is easy for me to admit that I feel so strongly toward you?" He sprang from the chair and took a step forward, coming to within a few inches of her face. "Do you think it is easy for me to say that despite surviving my entire life thus far without feeling this—this emotion—toward any being, that I now feel it as strongly as my brother does toward his lover?"

"Your brother? I didn't even know you had—"

Loki's arms flew out at his sides as he continued his rampage, and by now, he WAS raising his voice to her. "I am a solitary creature, Grace Lawson. I do not have need of anyone, and I never have. Companionship has never been my desire, certainly not the companionship of a woman and a child. I was perfectly happy to be on my own until such a time as I could return to my home. Then, you appear as if from thin air, and you force me to feel—"

The minute the words spilled from his lips, he wanted to gather them up and obliterate them with his scepter. Her mouth was hanging slightly open, her eyes filling with tears. This time, however, he noticed that her eyes flared, and her face became lined with white hot rage. It was the same rage that he had felt fighting Steve Rogers in Stuttgart, or when he sent the Destroyer after Thor; the same rage that had, ultimately, been his downfall. Then, just as quickly as the flame of anger danced across her face, it vanished, leaving only a stare as icy and hard as his Jotun form. With not so much as one word, she walked past him and out the front door, leaving him to choke on the words he wished he hadn't said.

* * *

Grace threw open the door to her parents' apartment. She resisted calling out to her mother just in case Amy was sleeping but thundered through the hallway barefoot, stomping every step of the way. Turning the corner into the dining room, she found her mother sitting at the long table with Amy in her highchair at one of the place settings. Vivian was trying to feed Amy some smashed potatoes, but most of them seemed to have wound up on Vivian's sweater. She briefly glanced up at her daughter, then did a double take when she saw the emotion splashed on Grace's face. She was flushed and taking shallow breaths, nostrils flaring. Vivian knew this look well—she'd been on the receiving end of it many times when Grace was a teenager.

"Uh oh," Vivian said, spooning another helping of potatoes toward Amy's mouth, successfully landing this one. "What did he do?"

Grace kissed Amy affectionately on the top of her curls, then folded her arms and leaned against the dining room wall. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Of course you do," Vivian replied, a corner of her mouth turning up. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have stomped in here with the same look you had when you were a teenager mad at your father."

Grace sighed and pulled out the chair oppose Amy's highchair. "He just said something that pissed me off. We started arguing because we kissed, and then—"

Vivian smiled and opened the jar of mashed bananas sitting on the highchair tray. "I was wondering when it would finally happen." Grace's head jerked up, and she stared at her mother slack jawed. Vivian's smile grew wider, and she spooned a helping of bananas into Amy's mouth. Amy was much more receptive to dessert. "I admit, I wasn't entirely sure things were heading that way for a while. But the minute I saw how he looked at you when you were sick, I knew how he felt. It just took until now for you to admit how you feel."

"Uh, hello? Did you miss the part where I said we got in a fight?" Grace was aghast. How was this so apparently obvious to her mother, but she felt so mixed up about it?

"Okay," Vivian said, setting down the spoon and turning to face Grace in earnest. She folded her hands and placed them in front of her on the table. "What was the fight about?"

Grace inhaled deeply. "We kissed, and I just...I got so confused and scared, Mom. I mean, he lives with me, and what if things don't work out, what if something happens and I get hurt again or Amy gets hurt? And all these thoughts are swirling around in my head, and so I stopped the whole thing. And he got upset and asked me if I didn't have feelings for him. And I said I didn't know what I felt, and he just got even more upset, and he said that I forced him to feel things that he hadn't felt before. And that's when I left." Her anger had dissipated by now, and the words made what happened sound less awful than it had felt at the time.

Vivian's forehead wrinkled, and she considered Grace's words carefully. "Well, on one hand, sweetheart, I understand your fears. I had the same fear for you, and for Amy, when you first suggested that Luke move into your place. Your father shared my concerns. Still does, frankly," she said, but then smiled. "But, on the other, try understand where he's coming from. Did you ever stop to think that maybe he's confused about his feelings, too?"

Grace had to admit, she hadn't, thought about that possibility. "But, Mom, he said I forced him—"

"Words, honey. I know that they weren't the best choice of words for him to use around you, but they were only said in the heat of the moment. I'm sure if you go back down there, he will be ready and waiting to apologize. But I also think you should apologize for storming out on him."

Grace wasn't ready to go back to face him yet. She knew her mother was right, but she didn't have the courage to admit it just yet. "I think I'd rather just stay here for the night, if that's okay, Mom."

Vivian sighed and walked to Grace's side of the table, kissing her on the head just as Grace had kissed Amy just minutes earlier. "Of course, sweetheart. You know you're always welcome here." And as if on cue, Amy chose that exact moment to tumble out of her highchair to the floor, smacking her head on the way down.

* * *

Loki, on the other hand, was positively miserable. He never thought he would wish to speak with Heimdall again. But right now, what he wanted most was to ask him where she was so that he could go to her, apologize for what he had said, and try to find out what he had done wrong. He wandered through the empty, darkened rooms, looking for he knew not what. He made himself a sandwich for dinner, but barely even picked at it. His appetite was little. He attempted to read to lull himself to sleep, but his eyes kept wandering from the page at every noise in the building. He even checked Amy's room a couple of times, even though he knew the room would be as empty as it had been all day.

Eventually, wanting to distract himself from the deafening silence blaring throughout the apartment, he turned on the television and found himself on the same program Grace had used to play the song they had danced to just hours earlier. It seemed that moment had been but a dream now. Yet he could still taste her on his mouth, still feel her skin burning against his.

He scrolled through the list of songs, not even knowing what he was looking for, as he was completely unfamiliar with most Midgardian music. He finally got tired of scrolling and simply hit "shuffle" on the list of options. The opening notes of the first song that played made the breath catch in his throat. He buried his face in his hands. He had not cried since he was a child, not for anything. But now he was crying for himself, for Grace, and, in the deepest part of his heart that had only just been awakened, for all the times he had caused pain in the lives of others. He was only now beginning to understand the real consequences of losing what one loved.

_Amelia, was always the one for me_

_But she, wouldn't stay_

_On a warm day, I came home to find that she had sailed away_

_Maybe I am broken, in some way I can't tell_

_I don't wanna change_

_But lord knows that I need some help_

_To save me from myself_

_Cecelia, flowers in her hair, was like the sun_

_Brought me to life_

_I can't tell you for the life of me why I would choose to let it burn out_

_I wish I was numb, alone here in my cell_

_Cause something in my heart, is making me not feel so well_

_Won't you save me from myself?_

_I get no sleep, cause I'm all alone_

_Like a living shadow_

_Where there once was more_

_One cut deep, and the other went sour_

_And no one's to blame, but I feel so shattered_

_Maybe I am lacking, still inside my shell_

_Cause I keep making waves, and falling victim to the swell_

_Will you save me from myself?_

_Will you save me from myself?_

It was a sleepless night for them both.


	24. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: The Other Side of the Door by Taylor Swift

The knock on the front door jolted Loki from his stilted sleep on the couch. He had spent the night tossing and turning in his bed until he realized that sleep would not be coming. So, he had sat on the couch reading a book until he finally, mercifully fell into slumber around dawn. He rolled from the sofa to the floor, then stood up slowly, as the second knock came. As he passed the armchair, he glanced at the clock: six o'clock in the morning.

Grace looked more disheveled than he had ever seen her. The skin around her eyes was creased, her hair was matted, and she looked like she had not slept for more than hour, maybe two. She held her arms across her chest, hugging herself as she had the evening before, but she did not look angry this time. She looked utterly exhausted.

"Hey."

It was the only word she uttered, yet it was the most beautiful word he had ever heard. His back stiffened and he stood a little straighter though he knew not why, because it was not his intention to appear imposing.

"Hello."

"Sorry to wake you," she said, her voice kind, but her eyes avoiding contact with his. "I left my keys here last night when I left, and I need to shower. Grand jury's today."

"Ah," he replied, stepping aside to allow her passage. He sleepily rubbed his hair. "Is there—is there anything I may assist with before then?"

"Now that you mention it, there is." She passed him, still not allowing herself to look up, and headed down the hallway toward her room. He followed languidly. "Amy had a little accident last night."

His head jerked up. He was suddenly wide awake, his heart throbbing, voice shaking as he talked, betraying a slight panic. "What happened? Why did you not call me? Is she all right?"

At this, Grace gave a small smile. It was sweet how much he seemed to care for Amy, especially given his initial reluctance even to touch her. Upon entering her room, she walked to her closet to start selecting clothes before her shower. "She's okay, really," Grace assured him. "Just had a little tumble from her highchair last night."

"You are certain she is not injured?"

"We took her to the urgent care last night to be sure, but yeah. Babies bounce," she replied over her shoulder, holding up two different suits on hangers, debating between them. "When I was nine months, I rolled off my parents' bed while my father was watching me. Why my mother thought leaving me alone with him was a good idea, I will never know. Anyway, I fell and smacked my face on the nightstand, and I turned out okay. Didn't even bruise. Appears I've always had a hard head." She looked at him in earnest now, trying to break the awkwardness. He half-smiled, and the air felt just slightly lighter.

"At any rate," she continued. "My mom is going with me for moral support. She can't be in the room, but she wants to drive me there and back—"

"Of course I will take care of her." He finished not only her sentence but her thought as well.

She wondered if it was because she relied on him so much that he just expected the request, or if he could read her mind. She blushed, feeling almost bad about wanting to confirm his suspicion, especially given the events of the previous evening. "Are you sure? Because I totally understand, it's your day off, and I can ask Leah or—"

"Grace," he started, slowly approaching, "nothing has changed. We may resume our relationship as it was. I do not wish to hurt you."

She exhaled deeply, then tossed one of the skirts onto the bed and hung the other back in the closet. "Okay."

He could not tell if there was more to her one-word answer than met the ear. "Okay?"

"Okay. Mom will bring Amy down when she comes to get me at eight. She'll have already eaten." He turned to leave, but she called to him. He turned back to face her, hands behind his back. "I know I don't say it enough. But thank you."

A small smile on her lips made his heart swell. As hard as he had cried the night before, so too did he smile now. "I think you have thanked me more than anyone else in my life. You have nothing to worry about."

* * *

"You ready?" Andrea took a sip of her coffee as she and Grace made the two-block walk from Andrea's office on Hogan Place to the New York Supreme Court building on Centre Street. Vivian had dropped Grace off outside the District Attorney's office as Grace had requested, and then headed over to the Courthouse on her own. If any press expected to see Grace pull up in front of the building, they would be sorely disappointed.

"As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," she replied, tightening her low ponytail behind her head and pulling down her conservative, gray knit suit skirt. Andrea's list of questions had also included a recommendation that Grace dress conservatively, but she had not needed the suggestion. She had dressed in a suit that she usually wore to court with her bosses during trial, black ballet flats, and—the bane of women worldwide—pantyhose.

"Relax. This is the easy part, remember?" Andrea's southern drawl was in full effect that morning.  _Reba McEntire in a power suit,_  Grace thought. They had spent the first part of the morning in Andrea's office, finalizing Grace's testimony, Grace asking several last-minute questions of Andrea. What could she expect from the jurors? What evidence would be presented today? Were there any other witnesses? And, the most important question as far as Grace was concerned—would Scott McAndrews be there? Logically, she knew the answer to that last question. Defendants were never present at grand jury hearings. Despite that, she wanted reassurance.

As they approached the courthouse, she could see a throng of reporters milling around the stone steps, waiting for a sign of an approaching victim. McAndrews was the heir to a local cosmetics line and the news of his arrest caused a sensation among local reporters. Especially after the announcement that McAndrews intended to fight the charges despite the overwhelming physical evidence, the press had been coagulating around the courthouse every day, waiting for news. She had seen how the press could sway a trial one way or another, but never having been on the prosecution's side of things, she was not sure how much help they would be to her. On one hand, they did not often like to blame the victim in a rape case. On the other, the accused was an heir, good-looking and wealthy. It could go either way, but she did not feel she had the energy to find out today of all days.

Thankfully, before any of the vultures could begin to circle, Andrea tugged on her arm to pull her away from the front steps. "We're going to go in one of the side entrances," Andrea said, tossing her coffee cup into the trash and shifting her briefcase to her other hand. "I don't want to deal with that mob right now. I'll talk to them after the indictment is issued."

Before Grace entered the imposing stone building, she hesitated. She had been inside this building a million times before. It should not have scared her in the slightest to enter it. But this time was different. This time, she wasn't here to file a pleading or pick up documents. This time, she was here as a victim. Even though she was here to start the process of putting her attacker away, in the back of her mind, she felt like she was the one bearing the burden of a lengthy sentence.

* * *

Loki was relieved that he had apparently understood the workings of a stroller adequately enough to keep Amy from having another accident. There had seemed to be ten thousand belts, straps, and buttons on the thing. He was not even sure he had affixed them all in their correct positions, but for the time being, Amy seemed securely locked into place. At the very least, he had been able to keep her in the stroller long enough to arrive at the Park Slope branch of the Brooklyn library.

After Vivian had deposited Amy with him before picking Grace up for court, the two of them had taken a short nap together on the couch. He read her another chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone before falling asleep. When they awoke, both feeling refreshed, he had decided that they had spent entirely too much time indoors during the cold winter months. He realized, however, that a baby could not be exposed to cold temperatures for as long as he could. So he tried to think of someplace within walking distance of the apartment where they could also spend an hour or two upon arrival. The library, he had decided, was as good a place as any. Perhaps he could find the second installment of the Harry Potter series. As silly as the "magic" was, the writing was not terrible, and the plot was intriguing enough. He could even identify with the boy who lived under the stairs. He often felt, as a child, that he did not belong to the family into which he was born—and later in life, he figured out why.

The weather was mercifully mild that day, so he did not have to bundle Amy in the layers of clothing that he had seen Grace struggle with so many times. He made sure that her hat fit snugly over the small bump on her head from her fall the night before, which, when his fingers ran over it, made her flinch ever so slightly. Putting her coat on caused no issue. However, he did have a bit of trouble when she had fussed over putting on her shoes. The baby was quicker than his fingers were nimble. She had managed to kick the shoes off four times before he realized that it was better to lace one into place before trying to put on the other. Amy, however, had seemed to relish what she viewed as a game, giggling the entire time.

"You do realize that I am a God, correct?" He had rolled his eyes at the child, finally secured in her stroller, which only served to make her squeal in delight. She seemed to enjoy taunting him though he knew that thought was ridiculous. She was, after all, only a mortal child.

The library was a large brick building with a double set of columns outside its front doors, which led directly into a grand foyer outfitted with a beautiful, stained glass ceiling. He pushed the stroller in front of him while Amy lazily sucked on a pacifier. Immediately, no less than five women with equally young children in strollers turned to gaze at him, expressions turning soft as they took in the sight of the tall, dark-featured man with the ginger baby. He ignored them all, intent only on finding his way to the children's section. While on the walk to the library, the thought occurred to him that he could make reading to Amy a nightly occurrence. He thought of the days he had spent at his mother's feet, her reading book after book to him, teaching him how to use magic and skill to survive rather than brute force as Thor learned from their father. He never imagined he might one day have the chance, let alone the desire, to pass along those lessons to a child of his own. But perhaps Amy, with her impish smile and perceptive nature, might be worth the effort. He knew he could not teach her magic, but he could at least impart a love of learning and wisdom to her that, he felt, was so lacking in most of the universe's populations.

The children's books were kept on the far side of the library, which had recently undergone renovations to increase its already expansive size. To reach them, he had to pass the non-fiction section, which impressed him with its volume. Each row of books had not only the call numbers of the books in that row, but also the subject matter. He gazed at them as he passed. Architecture. Animals. Biographies. Cooking.

Suddenly, he stopped.

_Cooking._

Glancing up at the large clock hanging overhead, he noted the time: two o'clock in the afternoon. He then looked at Amy, who seemed quite content to take in her surroundings, turning her head from side to side like a little rooster.  _If I hurry,_  he thought,  _perhaps I can accomplish two goals._

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to come up and have dinner with us?" Vivian opened the front door to the apartment complex and let Grace go in ahead of her.

"I'm sure, Mom," she replied, shaking her head. "I really just want to go and hug my daughter and have a glass of wine. I'll order something later. Besides, I'm sure Luke could use a break from babysitting. I've already imposed enough."

Vivian smiled and pushed a lock of her graying hair behind her ear. "Oh, I have a feeling he doesn't mind as much as you think he does. I don't know if you noticed, but when we left, he looked quite comfortable with Amy sitting on his lap."

Grace returned the smile tiredly. "Even still," she said, "if they've been cooped in the apartment all day—"

"All right. But if you change your mind, your father and I would be happy to have you all up." Vivian opened her arms for a hug, which Grace fell into easily. Sometimes, even though she loved Amy with her whole heart, it was difficult for her to be a mature, responsible parent. Sometimes, she just wanted to be her own parents' little girl, six years old, in pigtails and overalls, complaining about going to Hebrew school instead of complaining about college funds and courtroom drama. They stayed that way for a minute, two generations of Lawson women, with a third just down the hall. After a moment, Vivian took Grace's face in her hands and kissed her on the forehead.

"Bubbeleh," Vivian said, using a Yiddish term of endearment she hadn't used since Grace was a child, "I love you, and I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, Mamaleh," Grace joked, creating a nickname of her own. "Ugh, I'm amazed I even have the energy to be funny right now."

"Get some rest," Vivian replied. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

They parted ways, and Grace walked towards her apartment down the hallway. The grand jury had been exhausting, emotionally and physically. Even though the hearing was totally one-sided toward the prosecution, Grace still had to answer question after question about the rape and all its horrors. Andrea was as gentle as she could be, but she had to impart to the jury the nightmare Grace had suffered at the hands of the defendant. To do that, Grace had to tell the story from beginning to end. She had to go through each step, minute by endless minute—how McAndrews had sneaked into her apartment, the details of how he had taken her clothes off, every humiliating moment of the penetration, and the aftermath—including when she had discovered she was pregnant. She had hated that part the most. The way she had had to describe her discovery of Amy's conception and the miracle of her birth felt mechanical and cold, not at all the way she felt about actually being Amy's mother. Thankfully, McAndrews was not in the room for any of this. But she knew that was to be a short-lived miracle; he would be in the courtroom for every other part of this process, including when she took the stand during the trial. The only chance she had to avoid having to face him would be if he took a plea bargain before her testimony, but that was increasingly unlikely as time went on. At the very least, the trial would begin, and even then, Andrea would have to deal his case several blows before he would even consider a deal.

Before she opened her door, she leaned against the wall outside it, trying to regain her composure. Smoothing her hair back from her face and retying her ponytail, she wished she had gone to her parents' apartment to freshen up before coming home. She knew she probably looked like a Mack truck had hit her, but the less terrible she looked, the more likely Luke was to leave it alone. Even though she knew she couldn't put it off forever, she just didn't want to talk about the hearing right now.

However, when she opened the door, no one was standing there to ask her any questions. The lights were dim, and what looked like every candle she owned flickered like fireflies in the summer sky. The kitchen light was on just enough so that whoever might be cooking could see what he or she was doing, and the scents of garlic and oregano wafted through the air. As she entered the apartment and laid her coat over the back of the armchair, she saw there were two pans on the stove, one of which was covered with a lid and set to simmer. The dining room table, so infrequently used, was set for two, and Amy's highchair had been moved between the two place settings, its tray set with a small place setting of its own.

Her mind swam, cloudy with exhaustion. She walked to the stove and saw that the covered pan was full of diced tomatoes, oregano, minced garlic, and fresh basil leaves. She lifted the lid and the delicious smell wafted past her nose, making her empty stomach growl. She had not realized how hungry she was until just now, having only eaten half a sandwich at lunch out of sheer nervousness. Just as she was about to call out for him, Luke appeared from the hallway, carrying Amy on his shoulders. He seemed to be expecting her because he did not even jump at her arrival. "I see you have been snooping," he said, eyeing the pan whose lid Grace held in her hand.

She smiled. "Kinda hard not to, it smells so great! Who helped you do this?"

"I beg your pardon," he replied, feigning offense. "I will have you know that I achieved this on my own. Well, with the help of—err—a cookbook."

"You cooked this yourself, for me?"

"Not entirely for you," he said, raising his eyes upward toward Amy, who was quite clearly enjoying the ride on her makeshift horse. "We intend to eat as well, I assure you. We have had quite the adventurous day!"

"I'm sure you have," Grace replied, extending her arms toward Amy. He crouched before Grace, allowing her to pluck Amy from his shoulders and take her into an embrace. However, in the process of hugging her daughter, Grace could not help but notice that something was wrong with the diaper. She held Amy away from her and tilted her head, examining. "Oh my God," she said, and then started to laugh, harder than she had in weeks.

"While I am quite pleased with my culinary efforts, I must confess I was not as confident in my diapering skills," he muttered. While he was making dinner, Amy needed to be changed, he explained, but he had never diapered a child before. He tried his hardest but found it difficult to read the instructions on the diapers while keeping a struggling child in place on the changing table. Grace kept laughing as she grabbed a fresh diaper from the diaper bag near the door, and then put Amy on the couch. He had the general idea right but had put Amy's left foot through the waist hole. It was a valiant effort, but some things, Grace supposed, would come with practice.

When she fixed the minor disaster Loki had created with the diaper, she picked Amy up and walked toward him, as he finished putting the spaghetti from the box into the boiling pot of water next to the still-simmering pan of sauce. He turned to see Amy sitting on Grace's hip, reaching her chubby arms out toward him. Suddenly, her face scrunched up as if she were concentrating very hard on something. Her eyes narrowed and focused directly on Loki's.

"L...oo!"

Grace's mouth dropped open and then spread into a smile. "Oh. My. God," she said, eyes blinking rapidly. Most mothers would be utterly crushed by their child's first word being anything other than "mommy." However, Grace was slowly learning to accept emotions as they came, not to doubt them, and the only emotion that filled her heart was the same joy she had felt when she saw the two most important people in her daily life snuggled together on her couch, peaceful in sleep.

"I do not understand," he replied, confused.

"You didn't hear that?"

"I speak several languages, but 'baby' is not one of them," he said mirthlessly. "Please explain what I am missing."

"Loo! Loo!" Amy said again, still reaching for him. Grace handed Amy to him, and Amy immediately wrapped her arms around his neck, repeating the word over and over, as if trying to make him understand.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. "She's saying Luke?"

Grace nodded excitedly. He smiled externally, but inside, was more than a little conflicted. On one hand, he felt a strong bond between himself and this child, whether because of spending time with her or because of the care he felt for her mother. On the other, he found a terrible irony in the fact that the first word this child uttered, a word learned because of his presence in her life, was a lie.


	25. In Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Bridge Over Troubled Water by (take your pick) Clay Aiken/Simon & Garfunkel

New York was burning before his eyes. The Empire State Building exploded in a mass of metal and smoke. Trees in Central Park erupted in flames, the wind fanning the fire, spreading it faster than the firefighters could control. Cars crashed along Fifth Avenue, yellow cabs smashing into busses, concrete slabs, and buildings. Screams of fear, of pain, of anger, floated upward toward his perch on Stark Tower.

Loki heard them all but was powerless to stop them, no matter how badly he wanted to. He called out, begged The Other to call off the invasion, to send the warriors back from whence they came. He promised the Tesseract to them regardless, offered up all the power he had been given and more if the slaughter could end. He had not expected this madness, nor had he craved it. He only wanted a throne from which to rule, his birthright, to belong to a place, to have someone worship him the way they worshiped his father and his brother.

It was useless. The Other and his forces continued their onslaught, bringing with them the Leviathans, knocking over skyscrapers and crashing down upon homes, businesses, innocents, all of them innocents, and yet, Loki heard only one voice among them. A familiar voice, high pitched and wailing. Pained. Terrorized.

"Please, stop! Stop! Oh, God, stop!"

He threw himself off the tower, aboard one of the coasting gold gliders; he was desperate to track her down, to stop what he knew was in progress.

"Stop! No!"

He heard the voice becoming louder as he got closer, dodging beams of light and death rays shooting green and blue from the ongoing battle. He rocketed past Stark, who was trying to distract one of the giant metal snakes, while Romanoff and Steve Rogers fought the Chitauri on the ground. Closer and closer he came to the screaming, her voice echoing in his ears, louder still.

Finally, as if on autopilot, the glider crashed through the plate glass window in the lobby of a large apartment complex, hurtling him to the floor. He sprang to his feet, clutching the scepter to his chest, trying to get his bearings. Her shrieking was feverish now, desperate and pleading.

From somewhere above, his brother's voice boomed: "Loki! What have you done?"

And then, the voice, pleading with her attacker: "You don't have to do this! You can stop now! I won't tell, I promise!"

A new voice rang out through the din, deeper and more menacing: "Shut up, or I will slit your fucking throat."

He had to find her.

He ran through the hallways, but the smoke was thick and billowing around him, making it almost impossible to see. He tried to use his magic to clear it, but to no avail. There was too much of it, too evil for even his powers to overcome. His armor felt heavier than it ever did, dragging him down as he tried to move faster.

He called her name, but only her protests against the threats of her captor continued.

"Where are you? Please, just tell me where you are! I will come for you!" he cried.

He was growing desperate now, frantically darting through open doors, throwing his weight against those that were locked to break them open, stumbling in the thick, murky smoke, trying to see any sign of movement beyond it in each room. Through one door, up this set of stairs, out a gate, down that hallway. He repeated this process several times, sweeping each floor, but still unable to find her. He grew more frustrated, more filled with rage with each failed mission.

Suddenly, a great scream of pain erupted, piercing his ears straight into his soul. The sound was animalistic, not of this world. The second voice was roaring and angry, telling her to shut up, cursing, commanding, demanding, angrier and angrier each passing minute. Loki could almost feel that anger as if it were his own, and it made him even more determined to hunt down and destroy its source.

Finally, he reached the top floor of the building, where the fire was raging the hottest. And at the very end of the long hallway, he saw one last door, white, with a colorful tapestry hanging from it. He launched himself at it, scepter in hand, prepared to destroy whatever malevolent being was attacking her. The door opened quickly, and to his surprise, there was no sign of the fire raging on the other side of it. There was no smoke. The room was bare, except for two people thrashing against one another before he threw her to the floor like a rag doll. She landed on her back with a sickening thud.

On the floor, she lay, hair matted and tangled with dark blood that ran from several thick gashes along her forehead. She had a split lip and scratched knuckles and arms from the fight she had put up. She was still crying out, struggling to get away from the man attacking her, to no avail. His body was lanky but lean and strong. He pushed her legs farther apart, cramming himself into her roughly, nearly breaking her in two. She sobbed, tears streaming down her face, cutting clear streaks through the blood on her skin, but he did not care. She was less than human to him. The raw power it gave him to take from her what he wanted surged through his body like the flames surged outside the small room. He cared for nothing but himself.

The man's face rose, staring Loki directly in the eye as he defiled the beautiful creature below him who was, by now, whimpering in pain and sadness, resigned to her fate and slowly dying before his eyes.

What Loki saw made him wish to be burned alive in the battle raging outside.

In the monster's face, Loki saw his own reflected back at him.

* * *

The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him by the shoulders.

"Luke! Come on, Luke, wake up!" Grace was speaking in a loud whisper, trying not to wake Amy at the same time as she tried to wake him from his nightmare. He flew upwards, sitting straight up all at once. His eyes began to focus, recognizing his surroundings. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, whole and perfect, neither blood nor bruise maligning her skin, eyes narrowed at him with concern. Once she saw his eyes open, her hands loosened from his shoulders and ran down his arms lightly. They came to rest on the tops of his hands, which gripped the bedcovers tightly as a boa constrictor around a mouse.

"I—nightmare—" That was all he could say, still caught between reality and the dream. His throat was dry, his chest heaving.

Amy was not yet old enough to have nightmares, but Grace had had more than a few of her own and she tried to recall what her mother did for her at those times. She reached out her hand and wiped the sweat from his brow gently. He was always so cold to the touch, even now, despite sleeping under copious amounts of down bedding. "It was a dream," she said, her voice low and rolling. "Just a dream. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No!" he snapped. Then, more gently, he said, "I merely wish to forget it and go back to sleep."

Grace nodded, considering his response. She understood his inclination to ignore it and hope it went away, but she felt something more should be done. The dream had clearly upset him, and it would probably be difficult for him to fall back to sleep. If she knew him at all, she guessed he would stay up mulling over its meaning without something to distract him away from it. The next thing she said took some amount of courage on her part, but Luke had given her so much comfort in the past few months that it was time she returned the favor.

"Would you like me to stay?"

He was not sure he heard her correctly and did not want to risk upsetting her as he had the other day. "I—what?"

But Grace smiled kindly. "It's just for tonight," she reminded, as she might her child asking to spend the night in her bed after a nightmare. "And it's just platonic."

"Understood," he replied, shifting to make room for her before laying down on his back. She crawled over him carefully, her cotton pajama pants grazing his bare stomach. She untied her robe and tossed it over the bottom of the bed, and settled down next to him, but they did not touch. Neither of them was certain how far was too far or how much was too much was too much. Grace fell back to sleep first and quickly, curled on her side facing him. However, she was right in her unspoken estimation: he was happy for the distraction from his own mind. He listened to her shallow breaths, melodic and peaceful, a welcome change from the screams of his nightmares. He counted them as they came, one by one, as if to ensure that she was still alive, until he was lulled into a restful, deep sleep.

As she fell asleep first, so too did she awaken. The room was completely dark because of the blackout curtains draping the windows, the clock on the nightstand next to her reading 4:26 a.m. But she knew precisely where she was. She remembered coming to him late the night before, awakened by his screams, comforting him as best she could, and then lying down next to him to keep his mind from wandering back to the place from whence she had dragged it. She did not, however, remember falling asleep as she awoke, with his arms wrapped around her, his chest pressed against her back, warm breath heating the back of her neck, long, thick eyelashes tickling the top of her spine.

She closed her eyes and imagined the way he looked right that second. He always looked so unbelievably innocent in sleep, much younger than she supposed he was. His hardened expression became pliable and lost to the world. The lines in his forehead relaxed and his lips parted slightly, looking even more kissable than they usually did. The dark hair would fall in his face carelessly, frizzing at the crown a bit. He seemed to be very deep in sleep, and she was glad for it, after what had seemed like a terrible nightmare. She wondered if he was dreaming right now. She wondered if he ever dreamed of her.

The last thought she had before she fell back to sleep in those early morning hours was this: even though she did not remember falling asleep with Luke curled against her, she could not say with certainty that she was unhappy about waking up that way.


	26. Never Grow Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Never Grow Up by Taylor Swift

"Now THIS is how you spend Shabbat," Rachel said, tilting her head back to take a long drink of her mimosa, as the waiter finished taking their orders. It had been several months since all four of the friends had been available on the same Saturday morning for brunch, but Stacy had demanded that at least one of them abduct her from her wife-and-mother duties. It just so happened that all of them had volunteered for the same day. They met up at L'Apicio in the East Village; for fairness' sake, they picked something that was out of the way for everyone.

"I'll have the shrimp polenta," Grace said, the last to order.

Rachel gasped in mock horror as the waiter collected their menus and walked away, Leah ogling him as he left. "Grace Miriam Lawson! That's not even close to Kosher!" She mimicked Vivian's voice, knowing the elder Lawson would have been horrified to see her only daughter eschewing the dietary laws in favor of sinful shellfish.

"I think Kosher went out the window when we all had premarital sex," Leah joked, letting the words fly out before she thought them through. Grace winced. "Oh, Grace. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," Grace said quickly, wanting nothing less than to ruin what had been, thus far, a "before" type of day.

"So," Stacy said, clearing her throat, "not to bring this back around to mommy territory for those of us who have not been so burdened, but Grace, isn't Amy's birthday coming up?"

"Yeah," she replied. "I suppose it is. But I suck as a mommy because I haven't planned the thirteen clowns and eighty zoo animals yet."

"Oh, come on," Rachel replied, taking another swig of mimosa as the waiter brought out warm bread to the table. "Stacy only had two clowns for Paul Jr.'s first birthday. She's a way worse mom than you!"

Stacy rolled her eyes dramatically and buttered a piece of bread. "I swear to God, it's like I had kids just to amuse you guys," she said. "Anyway, Grace, all joking aside, I was talking to your mom the other day, and we do need to plan something for Amy's birthday."

"I get that, but I have no idea what I'm doing," Grace sighed. "It's not like they gave me a manual when I got pregnant that said, 'here's what you do at milestones.' And speaking of milestones, she said her first word."

All three of the women gasped and grinned at once. "Well?" Stacy raised an eyebrow. "What was it?"

"I'm sure it was mommy or something," Leah said. "Although my first word, according to my father, was chocolate."

"Why am I not surprised?" Grace smirked. "And actually, it wasn't mommy."

"Really? Then what was it?" Stacy seemed surprised, and for good reason, Grace supposed. It only seemed logical that Amy's first world should have reflected the most important person in her life. Then again, maybe it still did.

"It wasn't really a word, actually," she began.

"Grace, what are you hiding? Did she say 'fuck' or something?" Leah laughed.

"If she did, it's your fault," Rachel shot back. "Come on, out with it."

"Okay, fine. She said Luke."

And, as she predicted, all three women in front of her were silent for what seemed like an hour but was only a few awkward seconds. Rachel was the first to speak. She folded her arms on top of the table and leaned forward.

"Look, Grace, I think I can safely speak from some level of experience with the guy. He's not a bad employee. In fact, he really doesn't suck as badly as I thought he would. He seems perfectly well mannered and relatively intelligent. But that doesn't mean he's daddy material."

Grace's eyes narrowed and she felt herself growing hot under her collar. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Rachel..." Leah gave her a warning look and put her hand on Grace's arm. "Grace, look, it's not that we don't like him."

Stacy nodded. "We're just concerned. Like always."

A dark, negative thought was beginning to creep into Grace's mind like a virus. "Is this because of Luke, or because you don't think I know how to make decisions for myself?"

"No!"

"Not at all!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Well," she replied, "then what the hell is it? Because if it has nothing to do with Luke himself, and nothing to do with my decision-making ability, then what is the problem? Have I done something to make any of you think I would suddenly start making poor decisions when it comes to who I spend my life with?"

"It's not that," Rachel said, eyes softening. "It's like we said before, we don't want you or Amy to get hurt. You've been hurt enough. Even the best guys in the world might not want to raise a kid suddenly after being on their own for most of their lives. What makes you think he wants to raise Amy with you?"

Grace considered this. Luke had told her once that he had no desire to have a child, and she had assured him she was not looking for a father for Amy. She still meant that. But she had also gotten used to him being around, and had a difficult time picturing her life suddenly devoid of his presence. Before she could respond to Rachel's question, the waiter mercifully arrived with brunch.

As they devoured bites of pumpkin pancakes, mezzaluna, shrimp polenta, and gravlax, they went back to discussing Amy's upcoming birthday party. They seemed to have come prepared to plan the entire event in one sitting. Stacy had even brought a book on the subject with her, and Rachel and Leah referenced conversations they had had with Vivian over the last couple of weeks. Grace wondered how often her friends talked to her mother without her knowledge. While she appreciated how involved they wanted to be with Amy's life, and while she knew it was Jewish tradition to raise children communally, she could not help but feel like no one believed she could pull this off on her own. She knew she couldn't raise Amy entirely on her own. She had plenty of help from her parents, from her friends, from Luke. But she didn't think she was completely incapable of doing something as small as throwing her daughter a birthday party. Especially given their earlier conversation about her relationship with Luke, she wondered if her friends thought she was incapable of it.

"I think," she said, interrupting Stacy and Leah's high-pitched debate about whether a Barbie theme set the wrong example, "that we don't need to throw a huge party."

The group went silent.

"What do you mean?" Rachel asked. "Do you not want to throw her a party? Come on, Grace, it's her first birthday! I don't even like kids, and I know she needs cake."

"No, it's not that," Grace replied, shaking her head. "It's just that, well, why does it have to be some giant affair like it's her bat mitzvah or something? There's enough chaos right now. Can't we just have a quiet little get-together with family and friends? That was what my first birthday was, and I don't think I ended up scarred. At least not from that."

No one really knew how to argue with her. Stacy opened and shut her mouth quickly, and Leah focused her attention on the hot waiter.

"Okay, Grace," Stacy said, after a long silence. "A quiet night at home it is."

"Can we at least get her a smash cake?" Rachel's eyes sparkled mischievously, almost reminding Grace of Luke's for a minute. "She needs a smash cake!"

"Perfect," Grace rolled her eyes. She took another sip of her drink and grinned despite herself. "Just what a mother needs, a baby with curly red hair full of chocolate cake!"

* * *

It seemed like everyone had an opinion they wanted to offer on what Grace "should" be doing for the big event. Her female co-workers all shared stories about their own kids' first birthday parties, most of which involved ponies and bounce houses. She was able to shoot those down quickly since Amy's birthday was in February and the weather was especially inclimate. Stacy, Leah, and Rachel all mostly respected her wishes. Rachel was still hung up on the idea of a smash cake, which Grace supposed she could partially get behind, at least in theory if not in practice. Her parents tried to interject as well, even offering to pay for an afternoon at American Girl for Amy and some of the kids from the apartment complex. Grace refused all these "suggestions," observing that Amy was far too young to remember this event in the first place. Furthermore, even if Amy could remember it, she would be better served by a memory like Grace's—of close friends and family gathered around a cake in the comfort of home rather than an extravagant party surrounded by tons of kids she barely knew.

At the end of the two and a half weeks that spanned between brunch and Amy's birthday, however, Grace was beginning to feel like an unfit mother. Every time she told someone that plans included chocolate cake and Play-doh contests, they would give her a look that made her wither internally. The one person who did not seem to have an opinion at all was Luke. She was initially surprised at his disinterest in the affair since he was usually so opinionated about, well, everything. Then she had remembered what he had said around Christmas about not celebrating holidays where he came from and wondered if perhaps his family didn't celebrate birthdays either. From the afternoon that she had come home from brunch to announce the upcoming celebration, he had barely looked up long enough to ask one question—what kind of pudding would be served?

Despite her best efforts to keep the event low-key, the night before and day of the party, Grace was a nervous wreck. After a mostly sleepless night filled with waking dreams about every possible thing that could go wrong at a child's party, she forced herself out of bed at six in the morning to start preparing the meal. She had conceded to having the party at her parents' apartment since it was more spacious and could accommodate more kids running around, and guests would begin arriving at two in the afternoon. However, she refused to have a catered affair as Stacy had suggested, instead insisting on doing all the cooking herself. An hour and two dozen peeled potatoes later, however, she was beginning to regret that decision.

She wiped her hands on her apron and took a swig of her coffee, when she suddenly heard stirrings from the back bedrooms. She craned her neck, hoping to hear nothing more, because she needed Amy to sleep the last two hours of her infancy so that she could finish preparing the meal. Before she could come around the counter to investigate the sound, however, Luke padded out from the hallway, making quiet steps in his dress shoes. His irises stood out even more when contrasted with the cerulean sweater wrapping the muscles of his chest. As usual, his pants were just this side of obscenely tight.

"Good morning," she said in hushed tones, setting down the potato peeler long enough to grab a second coffee mug out of the cupboard and fill Luke's cup for him—black, a teaspoon of sugar. She handed it to him, and he took a long, slow sip from it.

"And to you as well," he finally replied. "You appear to be cooking for a small army."

"You've clearly never been to a Jewish party," she laughed. "My people are the Olympic champions of eating."

"I gathered that, from the looks of things. Have you got help coming?"

"Oh," she sighed, looking at the clock. "I'd guess that Rachel will pop in at some point soon. Maybe Leah, too. Stacy will probably be coming with the kids later on." He nodded slowly, taking another long drink of his coffee, as though he were rushing to finish it. It was then that Grace spied the shoulder bag draped over his left shoulder. "Going somewhere?"

"It is Saturday," he replied in a voice that made it sound as though she should have realized what that meant.

"Uh, yeah?" She pulled out a cutting board and selected a large, sharp knife from the block in the corner. "I mean, I know you usually work, but you can't possibly be going in today, can you?"

When her question was met with a responsive silence, she had her answer. Her lips pursed, and she did not bother to look up when he set his cup down on the counter, slamming the knife into the cutting board just a little bit too hard with each slice of the potatoes. She was afraid if she spoke of what might come from her lips, and she did not want to spoil the day's memories with anger, no matter how well deserved.

Loki, on the other hand, was keenly aware of the change in her attitude. "Grace," he began. "I shall only be away for a few hours and will endeavor to return prior to the party's end. I realize this is an important event for you, but I do have responsibilities."

She slammed the knife down and immediately regretted it when she heard Amy cry. She wiped her hands on her cupcake-patterned apron and smoothed her hair back out of her face before looking straight into his face.

"No, I get it. I do. It's not like you're her father, after all." Her voice was cold, but to his surprise, her words themselves were what pierced him. As she flounced past him to go collect Amy from her crib, he could almost feel an icy breeze blow past. He took his leave before she could return, leaving her to the party preparations, hopeful she would be in better spirits upon his return.

* * *

There was a high-pitched squeal from the back bedroom where a temporary playroom had been set up for the party guests under three feet tall. "Paul! Could you go check on the kids, please?" Stacy called to her husband, who was seated on the couch with Al, Brian, and Leah's husband, Ian. The men were, predictably, watching basketball on television while their respective partners busied themselves putting the final touches on dinner. The women were just as happy to play into this stereotype, as any more people in Vivian's kitchen probably would have caused more problems than solved them. At Stacy's request, however, Paul instantly arose and wandered off to the spare bedroom to check on the children, who were supposed to be making Play-doh birthday cakes which would be judged by none other than the birthday girl for a prize at the end of the night.

Along with Stacy and Paul's two kids, Paul Jr. and Chloe, Rachel and Leah had each brought their nieces, Jessica and Lottie, both of whom were just a little older than Amy and loved treating her like their own personal Barbie doll. Grace didn't mind; she was happy that Amy would have friends to grow up with just like she had. And now that Amy was getting older, Grace hoped she would be able to spend more time with the two girls.

Paul ambled back out to the kitchen, running a hand through his thick blond hair. "They're not dead, at least, but I think Paul Jr. might be getting tired of being outnumbered back there," he said, his deep baritone reverberating through the room. "Any chance food might be ready soon?"

"About ten minutes," Vivian said, bending back up from checking the entree cooking in the oven. "We've just got to reheat the latkes for the kids after the shawarma finishes. The kugel's cooling and the green beans are already ready."

"To say nothing of the cheesecake in the fridge or the pudding that shortly will be," Rachel continued, while spooning generous heaps of chocolate pudding into glass bowls and topping them with whipped cream.

"Like anyone asked you to make that," Grace muttered under her breath. Everyone in the room heard it, but no one said anything. Rachel shot a sideways glance to Grace, who refused to return her stare.

"Thanks, babe," Stacy said, breaking the silence and giving Paul a quick kiss on the cheek before shooing him back to the living room. Ten minutes later, it was as if an army had descended upon the kitchen, after Grace announced dinner's completion. Given that half the guests had the attention spans of gnats, it had been decided that buffet-style would be better than sit-down, and disposable serve ware would be better than the fine china. Grace had indulged Stacy and conceded on Barbie-themed paper plates but had drawn the line at wearing one of the silly hats—although she had allowed Amy to wear the princess tiara Rachel had picked up from the party store. Every little girl deserved to feel like a princess at one time or another, and Grace supposed her daughter's first birthday was as fine a time as any.

The kids sat around the living room coffee table eating latkes with their fingers, a plastic tarp having been laid over the carpeting well in advance. Chloe, the oldest of the children at seven, had begged to help Amy eat, and Grace was grateful for the assistance. It meant she could, for the first time all day, sit down and rest. The adults sat in the dining room, within ear and eyeshot of the kids but still thankful to be able to have the chance to have a grown-up conversation having spent the afternoon playing all manner of children's party games.

"Grace, I gotta ask this," Rachel said, avoiding eye contact and focusing instead on her plate of kugel. "You've been a little standoffish with me all day. Have I done something wrong?"

"It's not the time to talk about it," Grace shot back. "It's a party."

Rachel's eyes narrowed as she turned now to face her friend. "Where's Luke? Did something happen with him that's put you in such a bad mood?" The rest of the group shifted uncomfortably in their seats, the elephant in the room having finally been addressed. Only the sounds of chewing echoed in the silence.

"You should know," Grace replied. "You make his schedule."

Rachel's face descended into utter confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Grace, sweetie, perhaps now really isn't the time—" Al tried to be congenial as usual, but Grace was not dissuaded.

"No, she asked," Grace said. "Rach, you're telling me there wasn't anyone else you could have gotten to work today? You know how important this was to me, and I wanted him here—"

"Wait, wait, whoa, whoa, whoa," Rachel held up her hands in front of her. "I didn't schedule Luke to work today! I PURPOSELY didn't schedule him today! Do you really think I would have done that?"

Grace shut her eyes tightly, trying to think. Thoughts swirled in her head like murky water, and she couldn't swim through them fast enough to keep up. "I just—I mean, I know you don't like him, and he said he had to work today..."

"I told you before. It's not that I don't like him. I don't trust him. And given that he's just proven he's a liar," Rachel sighed, "I can't say I was wrong about that."

Grace had a hard time wrapping her head around any of this. Why would Luke have lied to her about having to work? Was it to escape the party? That didn't make sense. He had become so close to Amy over the last few months. They read together every night before Amy went to bed, already getting through the first two Harry Potter books. He changed diapers, gave her bottles, took her for walks in her stroller. Why would he want to avoid the first significant event in her life?

She gazed across the table into the living room at her daughter, now officially a toddler, wild red curls flying around her face as Chloe fed her forkfuls of sweet potato latkes covered in brown sugar. Amy's tiny pink lips curled into an appreciative smile with each bite. She probably had no idea it was even her birthday, no idea that it was such an important birthday. But it was, and Grace hurt. She hurt for herself, for his absence from this event, but even more, she hurt for her daughter, who would someday know of Luke's absence and would not understand it any better than Grace did. And then, just as she was considering asking Brian and Ian to go up to her apartment and start packing Luke's things, there was a knock at the front door.

"I'll get it!" Chloe and Paul, Jr. both yelled at the same time, and there was a clattering of footsteps racing to the door. Vivian excused herself and followed them, and a minute later, Chloe's voice rang out.

"Who're you?"

"My name is Luke, child," a lilting accent replied, soft but authoritative. "And you are?"

Chloe's giggle was followed by an introduction of both her and Paul, Jr. by Vivian, who led him back to the dining room, where the group waited for him. He looked slightly bedraggled and windswept and was covered with melting snow. His coat collar was turned up, and he lifted his shoulder bag over his head, laying it on the floor to the side of the table. Though there were several introductions made, his eyes stayed fixed on Grace, who was giving him the same icy stare from the morning.

"Well," she finally said. "I'm glad to see you finally made it from WORK." There was a strange emphasis on the last word she spoke, and Loki caught it.

Suddenly, he caught the look on Rachel's face reflected in Grace's. She knew he hadn't been at work. "It appears I have been found out," he said coolly.

"It seems you have," Leah said, interjecting herself. "If I were you, I'd peace out, dude."

"May I at least explain?"

Grace opened her mouth to tell Luke exactly what she would think of any explanation he had to offer, but just then, Chloe appeared at the dining room door excitedly.

"Mama, when can we sing happy birthday? We want cake!"

And just like that, their dinners only partially finished, everyone but Grace and Loki moved to the kitchen to prepare the cake with its candles, grateful for the distraction from the awkward scene about to take place. They stood staring at one another, his gaze soft, hers frozen in anger, a stark reversal of what would have been the case only months before. He wished more than anything that he could break through the glare. When, he wondered, had things changed? When had he grown a heart?

Before he could proffer his explanation for his prolonged absence, Grace whispered the one word that could hurt him more than any other for its simple truth before she left the room:  _bastard_.

* * *

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Amy! Happy birthday to you!" The group sang to Amy, seated in her highchair in front of the counter, a chocolate sheet cake with a single candle in the shape of the number one burning brightly on top of it. Loki stood toward the back of the room, mouthing the words silently, feeling as much an outcast as he ever had. They continued with a Jewish blessing, which he did not understand.  _"Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam shecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higyanu lazman hazeh!"_

"Come on, sweetie, let's blow out the candle and make a wish!" Grace leaned over the cake with Amy, lifting her up slightly, and puffed out her cheeks, motioning to Amy to follow suit. They both blew the candle out, mother and daughter together, and Loki wondered if Grace had made a wish as well, and if so, what it had been.

Everyone clapped and cheered when the candle went out on the first blow, and immediately the other kids ran toward the playroom to retrieve the presents that the guests had brought with them. A flurry of brightly wrapped boxes returned with them, various shapes and sizes. Everyone had gone to great lengths to spoil Amy, it seemed. Grace thought back to her baby shower. It had been the same thing then—so many presents, more than she knew what to do with. Sometimes she wondered if it would be the same if she hadn't been a single mother, if Amy's conception hadn't been what it was.

Shaking the thought off, she turned back to Amy and lifted her from the highchair, taking her to her parents' living room to sit in the middle of the couch between her parents. The rest of the group gathered in a circle around them. The kids took turns handing Amy and Grace box after box, and Amy relished ripping the wrapping paper from each one. Loki remained in his place near the dining room door, watching carefully. From Rachel and Brian, Amy received three new dresses, each with a different Disney princess theme. Leah and Ian got her several coloring books and an enormous box of crayons. Her grandparents gave her several Jewish savings bonds, and what seemed like dozens of dolls. Several new Barbies were Stacy and Paul's gift, particularly true to form.

"And don't think Mommy doesn't have a present for you," Grace said, handing Amy to her mother and stepping quietly out of the room. She returned presently with a guitar, surprising Loki, as he had never seen one in her apartment, much less seen her hold one. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she momentarily forgot she was angry with him. "I've been practicing this for a couple weeks now when no one's been home," she explained. "I played when I was a teenager and only stopped when—well, I thought this would be a good present, better than anything I could buy because obviously she's spoiled enough as it is."

She smiled and began to strum quiet chords as Vivian held a mesmerized Amy on her lap. Suddenly, a melody floated from Grace's throat, sweet as the cake on the counter and soft as a feather dancing through the air.

_Your little hand's wrapped around my finger and it's so quiet in the world tonight_

_Your little eyelids flutter cause you're dreaming so I tuck you in, turn on your favorite nightlight..._

Loki closed his eyes and remembered his own mother, the hum of her voice as she used to sing to him when he was just a young boy. He began forming memories much earlier than most Midgardian children could, and he remembered clearly as an infant being comforted only by his mother's singing. Odin may have saved his life, but Frigga had saved his soul.

_Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up, just stay this little_

_Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up, it could stay this simple_

_I won't let nobody hurt you, won't let no one break your heart_

_And no one will desert you_

_Just try to never grow up..._

When she finished the lullaby, everyone—including Loki—had tears in their eyes. No one spoke, but when Grace put down the guitar and took Amy into her arms for a long, deep hug, everyone felt the warmth and tenderness penetrating their hearts. But Grace only felt it for the little creature she had brought into the world a year ago that night. She loved Amy more in that moment than she ever had anyone in her life, and she knew that no matter what Luke had done or not done that day, no matter if he had no plans to take seriously their relationship, whatever it was, she would never allow him to hurt her daughter. She would always do what she could to protect Amy. This was her job as a mother.

Eventually, though, someone had to break the silence, and Loki was always good at interjecting where no one else would. "I fear that my offering cannot compare to that, but..."

All eyes were on him, including Grace's, whose hardened once again. She kept a firm grip on Amy, who reached her arms around her mother's neck toward Loki. He stepped briefly into the dining room and returned with two small packages wrapped in plain, brown paper. He kneeled in front of the couch where Grace and Amy sat, and Grace pursed her lips.

"Nice wrap job," she said.

"Your gift was not wrapped and yet it was the most beautiful of them all," he replied, stunning her into silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw Vivian's mouth twitch into a slight smile.

Then, he spoke directly to Amy. "Little one, one of these gifts is for now, and one is for later. But you may open both tonight. First, the one for now." He handed her the first package. Amy ripped into it the way she had all the others. When she finished, in Grace's lap sat a book called "D'Aulaires' Book of Norse Myths," a children's book with a colorful drawing of a powerful-looking God holding a spear and riding a horse galloping through the air. She could not help but smile as she recalled Luke telling her about the Norns when she had cried her secrets to him that first night. Amy's tiny fingers grazed the cover and she pointed with a smile at the man's winged helmet.

"I thought we could begin reading that once we finish the Harry Potter books," he said. "They are the stories I grew up with myself. I had to read several children's versions of these stories before finding one that adequately captured the truth of the stories."

"The truth of the—" Leah began, puzzled. But Loki cut her off, realizing his mistake.

"And now," he continued, "the second."

The second package was heavier, thicker, but Grace knew instinctively it was another book. As the wrapping fell away, her brow furrowed. Under her hands sat a copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, an unabridged version. The book smelled of old paper, the thing she loved most about old bookstores, which is where she imagined this copy came from. It did not appear new, like the other book he had given Amy.

"She can't understand Shakespeare, Luke. She's a year old, for God's sake."

Loki smiled, understanding her confusion, having prepared for it. He took Amy's tiny hands in his own but looked directly into Grace's hazy eyes.

"You said this morning that I am not her father, and I realize I never will be. Her father is a monster, as was my own. We cannot replace our birth parents with substitutes, no matter how caring they may be. But I have no plans to leave your side, or hers. The first book is for now, and the second is for me to read to her when she is old enough to understand the context. Perhaps when she is old enough that I might take her to see the plays acted out during the summer series in the Park," he explained. "I am sorry that I lied to you today. But I had to go to several, and I do mean several, different stores to find both of these items, over the last two weeks, and it took me far longer than I thought it would."

Grace could feel her face burning, and her ears filled with dead air, though she could vaguely hear aww-ing from those gathered around her—even Rachel, the hardened non-believer. His eyes were earnest, and she wanted to say she understood, that he was forgiven, that she was sorry for being angry in the first place, but words would not flow from her mouth. He left her speechless far more often than she was used to. Amy, however, did all the talking for both of them when she reached out and put her arms around Loki's neck, repeating his name with glee.

* * *

Three hours later, the party had ended, and Loki had enjoyed his pudding, though some confusion had ensued when his meaning of pudding had clashed with the American meaning of the word. They had gotten home only half an hour earlier. Grace was in the shower and he was in his bedroom reading yet another book from her collection—this one, a biography about President Kennedy—when he heard a small whimper from the bedroom across from his – Amy's. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and walked in his pajama bottoms and slippers into the nursery, which was illuminated only by a soft nightlight. Amy was restless, and had worked herself up into a sitting position, hair frizzed into a tangled mess and her face scrunched as if in pain. By now, he was a professional. He picked her up from her crib and nestled her to his chest. She still struggled, which was unnatural for her. He wondered if perhaps she had had a nightmare and was trying to break free from it still, as he had had to do a few weeks ago when Grace had comforted him.

Suddenly, he had an idea. He began to walk Amy around the room in slow circles, running his hand through her hair, smoothing it away from her face, supporting her bottom with his other arm.

_Your little hand's wrapped around my finger and it's so quiet in the world tonight_

_Your little eyelids flutter cause you're dreaming, so I tuck you in, turn on your favorite nightlight..._

His voice was not nearly so beautiful as Grace's, but he wanted to try to do something to comfort the child of whom he'd grown so fond. As if he had taken a video with his mind, he remembered the words to the lullaby Grace had sung easily, almost too easily.

_I won't let nobody hurt you, won't let no one break your heart_

_And no one will desert you_

_Just try to never grow up, never grow up..._

He turned to the doorway and saw Grace standing there, leaning against the frame in her bathrobe, hair still wet from her shower. She was smiling, tears shining in her eyes, but she said nothing. Instead, she approached him and put her arms around his waist, Amy between them, her skin warming them both.

They sang quietly together.

_Oh darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up, it could stay this simple_

_Won't let nobody hurt you, won't let no one break your heart_

_And even though you want to, please try to never grow up_

_Oh, don't you ever grow up_

_Oh, never grow up_

_Just never grow up..._

As they finished the song, Grace stood on her tiptoes as Loki leaned his head down, and as their lips met in a soft, sweet kiss, she realized at last that at least in this apartment, in this little circle, there was no one from whom she needed to protect Amy—or herself.


	27. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Beneath Your Beautiful by Labrinth

The late September morning was muggy and felt more like early summer than late fall, the air thick and heavy as a tree trunk. Grace laughed softly, finding it fitting that the heat be this oppressive on this particular day. They ascended the stairs from the subway together, making their way toward their destination. She took his hand in hers. It was cold against her palm, cutting the heat like a sword through flesh, a welcome relief. She regretted leaving her hair down and reminded herself to throw it into a quick plait when they stopped. They turned a corner and walked down a crowded city street toward the courthouse. People passed by as if it was an average day, and to them, it probably was. People going to work, school, church, home. No one knew or cared what was in store for her on this day. That was part of what she had loved so much about growing up in this city, but on this day, it only served to make her feel even more isolated. Then, suddenly, she had a dark, curious thought.

"Do you ever think about the fact that it's all the same, but nothing's the same?"

Loki glanced down at her. She was walking with her head turned down, watching the pavement as she moved. "I'm sorry?"

A sad sigh escaped her pink lips. "I mean, like—the world kept moving after the invasion, you know? The city, they rebuilt it. Everything looks just like it did before, but nothing will ever be the same. Some things will always be just a little bit damaged."

His eyebrows raised slightly, and his necktie suddenly felt a little too tight. "Do you feel you are damaged, Grace?"

"How could I not, Luke? I can only hope that this trial will help me feel a little bit less so. But I still don't know how I'm going to do this." Her voice shook as she talked, betraying fear behind feigned humor.

"You will do nothing alone," he said, suddenly quite serious, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk and tilting her chin up to him. "We shall do this. Together."

She had learned more about Luke in the last year than she learned about any one of her girlfriends over a lifetime. He loved books more than anyone she had ever met and was learned in more subjects than she thought a person's mind could hold. She had not yet found a language he did not speak. She had taken him to Stacy's Passover Seder, and to her surprise, not only was his Hebrew perfect, he knew all the motions of prayer and what each part of the meal symbolized—unbeknownst to her, he taught himself to speak the language after Amy's birthday. Her friends had finally warmed to him—even Rachel, who had promoted him from research assistant to managing librarian of the Renaissance section of the library. While their relationship was nowhere near "official," no one questioned it any longer. It was a given that where Grace went, he would follow. He provided her safety and security, support and adoration. No matter whether it was a neck rub after a long day at work or the shoulder he had provided when she had come home from testimony preparation the week before, drained and crying, he was her rock. A small romance had even blossomed between them, beginning the night of Amy's first birthday. It had never amounted to much, but he never pushed for more. He seemed content with what they had—long nights spent talking about their pasts and their future, punctuated with stolen kisses while passing each other in the hallway.

More than that, he was a surrogate father for Amy, something Grace never expected nor asked of him. He was kind and generous with her daughter in a way only a father could be. He took her to the zoo, planned picnics in the park for her and Grace. He combed her curls so that they would not tangle after her baths. And, of course, he read to her every night—they had finished all the Harry Potter books and had moved to the book of Norse mythology he had bought her for her first birthday months ago. In fact, in no small part because of his encouragement, Amy's verbal skills were far superior to her peers. Not only was she saying words like "mama" and "doggy," it was not uncommon for Grace to walk by Amy's room in the morning before bringing her out of the crib to hear "Thor" and "Frigga" between spurts of baby babble. In short, he had been nothing short of a Godsend.

Nevertheless, in the darkest part of her heart, Grace felt that no matter how close she felt to him, and no matter how much he wanted to comfort and protect her, he could not truly share this with her. She swallowed her feelings, knowing there was no need to push him away when he was only trying to help, and squeezed his hand.

The trial was supposed to last for two weeks if the defense put up any sort of argument. Andrea had told Grace that she did not have to attend the trial at all except for the days she would testify, which would come at the end of the prosecution's case. Apparently, the plan was to present all the scientific evidence first and end on the most emotional note—her testimony. Her emotions, her life, her choices and actions would be on display for all to analyze, whether she wanted them to be or not. While she would have much preferred to get it all over with at the very beginning, she realized early on that she had little control over the presentation of the evidence. To do her job well, Grace knew, Andrea had to have total control of her case. It was the great irony of prosecuting rape, as Grace had observed many times before: to obtain justice for a crime that took away all semblance of control, you had to give up control one more time.

So, she found power in one of the only ways she could. She wanted to attend the first day of the trial, to look Scott McAndrews in the eyes, to let him know he had not broken her beyond repair and that she would not allow him to dominate her life any longer.

They continued walking until they came upon the great stone and marble building, which Loki regarded with skepticism. It seemed overly ornate, as if a distraction in case of the failure of its intended purpose. Standing on the bottom step of the building was a tall woman, made even taller with the addition of stiletto heels, flaxen hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, lips grazing the edge of a paper coffee cup. He noted that she could not be much older than Grace. When she made eye contact with Grace, she tossed the cup into a trash can nearby and walked toward them with an air of confidence rivaling Sif.

"Grace, how are you?" Andrea grabbed Grace's hand in both of hers, before looking up at the tall, shadowy man standing next to her witness. "And this must be Luke."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Grace has spoken very highly of you," he said, taking Andrea's hand and kissing it, a habit he still had not broken despite his many months on Midgard. "I am only sorry it cannot be under better circumstances that we meet."

Andrea raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Wow, you weren't kidding about this guy," she replied, almost as if she were Grace's friend rather than a hardened prosecutor ready for battle. Loki then raised his own eyebrow in Grace's direction.

Grace looked around. "Where are all the press?" The last time she'd been to court, there had been journalists crawling all over the front steps. Now, it seemed they were the only ones in attendance.

"Already inside, I'd venture a guess," Andrea said, checking her watch. "Probably talking to that dirtbag DiGorga."

Dennis DiGorga was one of New York's biggest name defense attorneys, mainly representing white-collar and high-profile clients. A famous name for all the wrong reasons among attorneys throughout New York, DiGorga would do anything and everything to get his clients off, for the right price. Grace had never seen him in action, but she shuddered at the thought of enduring his cross-examination.

"Hey," Andrea said, gently taking Grace by the upper arms, as if she could read what was in her mind. "We went through this. You'll be fine. Come in when you're ready, okay? Courtroom 21B."

Grace nodded. Andrea turned and headed up the endless stairs, powerful and strong. Everything Grace felt she was not. Suddenly she felt glued in place, like the air was even thicker than it had been, and she could not remember how to move through it.

Just then, Loki turned to her. He folded his arms in mock annoyance. "So, about what were you not kidding?"

She stuttered as if she had forgotten his presence entirely. "Oh, it wasn't—I mean, nothing bad—"

He turned to face her and once again lifted her face to him with the pads of his fingertips. Gazing down, he saw trepidation haze across her face. "Grace, my Grace," he whispered. "I said that in jest. If you believe me angry, believe otherwise. I have taken many dangerous journeys in my life and have found that the most daunting must be met with a measure of humor, lest they overpower us with fear."

She lowered her eyes, but a small smile inched played across her lips. His fingertips moved to palm her cheek, and she nuzzled her face into his hand. Then, she straightened her posture, smoothing the lines of her chocolate brown linen skirt, and started up the stairs. He followed, guarding her—as always, just one step behind.

* * *

The packed courtroom reminded Loki of a scaled-down version of the throne room in Asgard's palace. Wooden benches lined the back third of the room, separated from the front two-thirds by an ornate carved wooden gate. Several flags stood on poles at the front of the room behind a tall judge's bench, next to which was a smaller box, which, Grace explained, was where she would sit during her testimony. On the left side of the room was yet another box, in which sat sixteen empty chairs. Andrea stood on the other side of the wooden gate on the side of the room furthest from the sixteen chairs. She was speaking with two young, well-dressed young men whom Loki presumed were part of her trial team. Several boxes stacked on top of each other sat next to the table where she stood.

On the other side of the room, amid a throng of microphones and tape recorders, stood a small man in an expensive suit with slicked back, jet-black, thinning hair. His tan skin was pulled tautly over his plastic-looking face. He laughed and joked with the reporters and appeared to relish the attention lavished on him. He was the polar opposite of the youthful, serious prosecutor. Loki's temper flared at the sight of this man, who apparently found it entertaining to be in this setting, while Grace was suffering minute by minute.

Suddenly, a door near Andrea's side of the room opened and through it walked a man in a three-piece suit. He was handsome, at least by Midgardian standards. In fact, he would have been considered attractive among the women of Asgard. He was of average height, but his jaw was square, and his eyes were dark, staring straight ahead. He smiled at the man surrounded by reporters, apparently not only possessing Steve Rogers' looks but also his confidence. However, what Loki's eyes immediately darted to, what set this man apart from the soldier, were the freshly cut, fire-red curls atop his head. In that instant, Loki knew who this man was. He felt hatred more powerful than the torture he had endured when he had been cast out into the darkest depths of space, but his anger's heat instantly chilled when he felt Grace's hand grip his tightly, and her body slump against him.

Her voice cracked against itself. "Luke. That's him."

She didn't need to say it. He knew. But he nodded anyway, and led her to the front bench behind Andrea, doing his best to steady her as she never let her eyes leave Scott McAndrews, despite his refusal to make eye contact with her.

A middle-aged man entered the courtroom wearing a long, black robe that reminded Loki of the robes worn by the Dark Elves of Alfheim. He took his place behind the bench and banged his gavel.

The trial was underway.

* * *

"Where were you when the world was ending?" Andrea began, standing at attention in front of the jury. "It's a question we all asked each other after the invasion of May 31, 2012. Much like people asked each other after Pearl Harbor, or John F. Kennedy's assassination or 9/11. This is another date that lives in infamy—where were you when the invasion happened? Were you at work?" She motioned to a blonde juror, about Grace's age. "Maybe you were at school." She nodded at an Asian man who looked to be just out of high school. "Maybe you were just sitting in your apartment, watching the chaos unfold. That's where Grace Lawson was, on that day and in the days after, safely and securely avoiding the nightmare outside. Or so she thought."

She turned and walked toward Grace, standing on the opposite side of the gate from her but holding a demonstrative hand out in her direction. "In the days following the assault on our city, we all know there was a great deal of rioting and looting. Chaos amidst chaos. And a few individuals took advantage of that chaos. A few individuals decided, 'Hey, you know what? The rules don't apply to me. Why not just take this opportunity to live out my fantasies, when the police are too busy to stop me?' The Defendant, Scott McAndrews, was one of those people."

After walking back toward the jury, and making eye contact with each one of them, Andrea then turned halfway to motion toward McAndrews, who was sitting at the defense table with his hands folded neatly on the tabletop. "The Defendant decided to take advantage of that chaos to live out his sick fantasy of control. Evidence from a rape kit performed on Ms. Lawson will show that on the afternoon of June 1, 2012, he entered Ms. Lawson's apartment, brutally raped her, and left her bloody and beaten on the floor of her bedroom."

Grace gripped Loki's hand tightly, squeezing harder than she ever had. He glanced down at her. She looked stricken and pale.

"But that's not all the Defendant did that afternoon," Andrea continued, turning back to face the jury. "When he raped her, Scott McAndrews did not use a condom. The evidence will show that the Defendant fathered Grace Lawson's daughter, conceived by that very act of violence." Andrea looked again at McAndrews, and then back to the jury, a small smile on her face. "Now, some of you may think to yourselves, why would this handsome, well-groomed, wealthy man need to rape someone? Surely, he could get any woman he wanted with just the snap of his fingers. Scott McAndrews might well have been able to date Ms. Lawson simply by asking her out."

In the background, Grace grimaced. She could never imagine dating the man seated at the defense table. Andrea continued her argument.

"But that's not what this is about. Ladies and gentlemen, rape is not about getting a date. It is not about sex. It is about two things and two things only: the need to control another person and the inability to accept societal limitations on our behavior. Scott McAndrews chose to break into Grace Lawson's apartment and rape her not because he could not get another person to date him, and not because he had the urge to have sex. Scott McAndrews chose to do what he did simply because he believes the rules do not apply to him. He believes he is above the law. And he believes that what he wants, he should have, without limitation or the need for consent. It is as simple as that."

She then walked confidently back to the prosecutor's table, smoothing her skirt underneath her before sitting down. Then she whipped out a notepad and a pen, preparing to take notes on Dennis DiGorga's opening statement so that she would be ready for whatever defense he had decided to make on behalf of his client.

DiGorga stood up from his seat next to McAndrews, clapping his client on the shoulder as he did so. He buttoned the front of his suit coat and strutted out in front of the jury to the same place Andrea had just stood. Loki was predisposed not to like DiGorga, but despite that, he decided, DiGorga looked much less commanding in front of the jury than did the young, confident prosecutor. Loki glowered at him, heat rising almost visibly from his cold skin.

"Ms. Marks is correct about one thing. My client, the Defendant in this case, was with Grace Lawson on the afternoon of June 1, 2012. But, unlike what Ms. Marks would have you believe, there is no evidence that will suggest that their encounter was anything but rough sex between two consenting adults."

Loki involuntarily reached for his right side, where, in his Asgardian armor, he would have found a dagger. His left hand tightened around Grace's, and he wasn't sure who was comforting whom.

DiGorga continued, his accent dripping New Jersey. "The prosecution would have you believe that my client—that upstanding, wealthy, handsome gentleman sitting right over there—decided, during the most chaos this city has faced since September 11, 2001, to break into a random girl's home, violently rape her, and then go on about his life as if nothing happened. They would have you believe that Ms. Lawson decided to keep the child of this alleged rape and not ask for child support from its father. But ask yourselves, does that argument make sense? I think, if you truly put that question to yourselves, you will find the answer is simply no. It does not."

Stepping closer to the defense table, DiGorga looked at Scott McAndrews and smiled, and then turned back toward the jury, making eye contact with each individual seated in the box. They regarded him closely, carefully, but most of them leaned forward, clearly interested in what he had to say next.

"What makes more sense is what actually happened: my client and Grace Lawson had a sexual encounter, perhaps a bit rougher than what you or I might enjoy, but still consensual. Ms. Lawson, however, told my client that she was on birth control when, in fact, she was not. She became pregnant from the encounter, and, in an effort to coerce my client into a relationship he did not want, kept the baby. When he told her he did not want any part of the child's life, she brought these false allegations against him in a blatant attempt to defame and shame him.

"Now, some of you may be predisposed to think of my client as a cad, for choosing to deny involvement with his child. And perhaps he is. But that does not make him a rapist. The prosecution has no evidence to prove their case, except the word of a woman," he said, pointing directly at Grace now, "who has a baby she never truly wanted that she now must raise alone, without the involvement of a rich boyfriend. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what this case is about."

DiGorga walked back to the defense table, Loki's eyes burning into him the entire time. Then, he looked at Grace, who was staring straight ahead at nothing, her eyes blank pools of dead space, her face an emotionless canvas on which DiGorga had chosen to paint the image of a whore.

* * *

She had been silent most of the way home, and Loki had respected that silence as best he could. He asked her if she was hungry, but she had said no. He asked if she wanted to get Amy from her mother's, and she wanted to wait a little while. But when they walked through the apartment door, he could no longer pretend this was any other day. He needed to express his own feelings, even if she would not show hers. He loosened his necktie and tossed his jacket over the armchair.

"How is it that you are not angered by the things that vile man said?"

She tossed her jacket over his. Her voice was still devoid of emotion, and she did not look at him. "What are you talking about?"

His words came quickly as a serpent through the grass. "Grace, you have barely spoken one word all day. You reacted little to what Mr. DiGorga said about you, and I find myself wondering why I seem angrier than you."

She spun around to face him suddenly, forehead wrinkled, her eyes pained. "You think I'm not angry?"

Suddenly, he found himself wondering if he had forced his idea of pain onto her and feeling very sorry for it. "No, I—"

She cut him off. "I am angry. I've BEEN angry. But anger won't help this situation, Luke. Mostly, I'm hurt, and I'm trying to keep the hurt down because if I let it out, it won't stop. It won't ever stop if I let it start."

The frantic pace of her words reminded him of the night she allowed herself to confide her fears to him, the night she confessed the rape to him in the first place. He took a step toward her, but she backed away, still talking as if a dam had broken between them, the very dam she had been trying to keep intact.

"I guess I expected them to try to claim it never happened at all. I don't know why I thought that, especially given that I can prove Amy is his daughter. Maybe I was deluding myself. But that's what I prepared myself for. But hearing him claim that I consented to it, that it was just rough sex—I never would have done it, Luke. Not with him. Not like that."

"I know, Grace," he said softly. "No woman would—"

"No, you don't get it," she cried, throwing her hands in the air and pushing her hair back from her forehead. "You don't get why it hurts me so badly that they even tried to suggest that I would have consented to any of it. You have NO idea."

"Well, then, please tell me," he said, growing increasingly confused.

"I never would have consented to it, because I had never—I mean, it was my first time. And why would any girl want her first time to be that? To be rough and degrading and bloody?"

He stopped, falling short of the step he was about to take toward her. His eyebrows raised as the rest of his face fell. "Do you mean to tell me that this monster's touch is the first you've experienced from a man?"

She nodded, averting her eyes. She was even more embarrassed now than she ever had been, even in the darkest days after the rape. She figured he would look at her now as a child, an immature, foolish little girl. "I hate that the first touch I ever felt like that was full of violence. I hate that my first child was conceived out of it. I hate that I feel like I'll never be able to know what it's like to feel someone make love to me, even though there is nothing I want more in the world."

Suddenly, as if by magic, he was standing as close to her as he ever had, one hand on the small of her back, the other on the base of her skull. "Do you honestly believe that there is no one who would make love to you?" His words were liquid in her ears, smooth as a cat's purr. "You are extraordinary, Grace. You are the most exquisite, beautiful creature, and yet you honestly believe that there is no one who would make love to you?"

He moved his hand up her back, over the fabric of her sweater, wrapping his other hand lightly through her hair. She raised her eyes, and the green met the blue. He could tell she was searching for something, but he knew not what. She broke away from him just then, turning her back to him, head down. Her hair fell around her shoulders and face, obscuring her expression from him. He stood stoically, scared to move, as if she would disappear before his eyes with the slightest breath. He had already destroyed so many moments like this by saying or doing the wrong thing, so this time, he would allow her to make the next movement.

She was conflicted. Her relationship with Luke had been so contented for the last few months. Especially when stacked up against the drama and anxiety of this trial, she wanted so much to let go and believe that he was safe and that she was safe with him. Her quickened breath and her heart pounding against her chest said one thing, but the questions throbbing in her brain said another. But she could not help but hesitate. What if she made the wrong decision? What if she screwed everything up?

She suddenly thought back to something her mother had taught her long ago, when she had first had her heart broken as a teenager by some silly boy whose name she could no longer recall. At the time, it had devastated her, and she had gone to her mother for solace, as most young girls would. A devout Jew, Vivian could always rely on the Talmud for sage advice, and that occasion had been no different. She had explained that long before Grace had been born, her partner had been predetermined for her by God, just as Vivian and Alvin had been predestined for one another. And Grace could question whether any given man was for her but would know the answer with no more than a look in his eyes, because they would tell her that he had found the answer to his own question.  _B'shert,_  Vivian had called it. A Yiddish word. Meaning "soulmate."

Grace whipped around to face him then, looking upon his face in earnest. She had to see what was there for him, if it was the hormones of a man aroused or something more. She had the question her mother said she would have.

It took less than a second for her to look into his pained, waiting emerald eyes to find the answer.

She rushed back into his body, crushing her mouth against his, pulling him deeper to her, silently begging him to take her, make her spirit whole with his body. "Luke," she whispered, pulling away from him for just a second. He knew what she needed to hear, but that isn't why he said it. He said it because he had nothing else to say, nothing else that was true, nothing else that would have encompassed what he felt for the woman standing before him. She had changed him, changed who he was, made him mortal, and, what's more, made him feel good about it.

He said it because, for the first time in his entire existence, he felt it.

"Grace," he said. "I love you."


	28. Whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiss Me by Ed Sheeran
> 
> NOTE: NSFW, lots of sex here!

Loki's hands flew to her face, grasping her jawline between his fingers. They had kissed before, but this was different; it was more desperate and yet gentler at once, made of pure, unaltered passion. His tongue moved across her lips, catching the faint taste of pears. His mind was frantic, and he could not decide whether he wanted to keep his mouth pressed against hers or move it down her thin, delicate neck.

Her heart throbbed against his chest, and she wondered if he could feel it through the layers of their clothing. Her knees felt weak and she struggled to keep herself upright, but somehow, she knew he would not allow her to slip from his grasp. She knew she was shaking uncontrollably, though she felt anything but cold. Lifting her hands from around his neck, she ran them through his hair, soft and thick as her own. She could not remember ever having been kissed like this, as if the love he had just verbalized was now being poured from his lips to hers.

Suddenly, he broke the seal of their mouths and crouched down just slightly, wrapping his arms around her rear. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, her chest pressed against his now, her head above his. She wrapped her legs around his waist and bent forward. Her hair draped both their faces, and she pressed her palm to his cheek. His eyes burned into hers, twinkling with both desire and the slightest bit of mischief, but she did not shy away. She looked at him the way she had just before the first time they had kissed, without thought or fear or reservation. She simply felt—felt beautiful, felt passionate, felt all the things she had locked away in her attempt to isolate herself from the pain. She saw herself reflected in his eyes and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she saw beauty and she saw truth. But this time, she did not turn the feelings on their head. She did not run from them.

"Luke," she said softly, motioning with her head toward the hallway.

He knew what she was suggesting. "Are you certain?"

"Please," she said, leaning her head down and kissing his jaw, eliciting a moan from deep within his throat. Without one more word, he set her down gently on her toes and leaned down once more to kiss from her temple down to her ear, tracing a path to her mouth, his eyelashes fluttering against her cheek all the way down. She closed her eyes and felt the heat of his breath against her skin. Then, she took him by the hand, for the first time leading a man—the man she loved—to her bed, both kicking off their shoes in the process.

If someone had told him two years earlier that he would find this desire within himself through love for a mortal woman, he would surely have rolled his eyes and scoffed at the mere suggestion. Now, before him stood a slightly terrified wisp of a woman, clearly unsure of herself, which only made her even more beautiful to him. He sat on the edge of her bed and pulled her between his bent knees, lacing his fingers through hers and drawing her arms around his neck. She fell against him then, nuzzling close, breathing in his virile, smoky scent. Her fingertips moved over the broad expanse of his shoulders and down his chest, unbuttoning his white dress shirt as she moved. Sliding it down his arms, she realized she had seen him bare-skinned countless times, but it was as though she were truly seeing him for the first time now. His body responded to every one of her touches, growing tense in every sense of the word.

He decided to press forward. He slid his hands under the back of her sweater, feeling the soft indentation where her tailbone met her rear, making his way up along either side of her spine until he reached the underside of her bra. Wordlessly, she lifted her arms, allowing him to pull the sweater over her head. Slowly and carefully, he pulled her toward him further still and unhooked her bra in one swift motion. Though she did not try to stop him, did not want to stop him, instinctively, she tried to cover herself with her arms. Even before the rape, she had not been comfortable with her own nakedness. She worried for a moment that there was something irrevocably broken in her now, that she would be unable to overcome the feeling of apprehension even in the presence of this man whom she loved unquestionably.

He slowly stood up from the bed and traded places with her, gently easing her backward and coming to lay beside her, propped up on his elbow with his hand behind her head. Without even realizing it, she loosened her grip from across her own shoulders and draped her hands around his neck again. His legs intertwined with hers, and she realized she felt completely wrapped up in him. But rather than feeling trapped as she had the last time she laid with a man like this, she instead felt the intense pang of need—the need for love, the need for touch, the need for protection, but most of all the need for all those things to come from him.

"You said something today that concerns me," he said, feathering kisses across her lips and down her throat. She felt the hairs on her forearms stand on end at the touch of his lips on her skin and arched her back, reaching for him.

Her breath came quicker, and she was sure he could see her heartbeat outlined in the skin covering her chest. She couldn't believe he was trying to have a conversation now. "Oh?"

"You said," he purred, moving his mouth into the hollow of her clavicle, his tongue dipping into its depth for just a moment, "that you felt damaged. What part of you feels damaged? Surely, you are not damaged here."

She was listening intently as she could with his tongue's ministrations now on the top of her left breast. It was not easy. The combination of his touches and her nerves was causing a deep well of warmth to pool between her legs. He moved to her right breast, his broad shoulders spanning her entire width.

"Nor are you damaged here," he said, gently sucking on the hard peak of her breast, giving it a playful nip. She squeaked, grasping at his hair nervously. She felt a wicked smile curve against her as he moved down her stomach, leaving behind a cool, wet path with his mouth. As he reached the top of her linen skirt, he looked up at her for reassurance. The last thing he wanted was to push her further than she was willing to go and become yet another painful memory she would have to harbor. She bit her bottom lip nervously, but her eyes stayed locked on his and she urged him on, lifting her hips so that he could tug the skirt free from her body.

For his shortcomings on the battlefield, Loki knew, he made up in the bedroom. He could be anything a woman needed at any moment, but most of his chosen partners desired little more than debasement; indeed, he had only experienced the company of courtesans. He had never had the desire or the need to take his time with a lover, to drink in the beauty or delicacy of the female in his bed. But this time, he stood before this woman in all her naked beauty and was, for the first time, speechless. He took in every inch of her body, from her wild, dark hair splayed behind her head, to the curve of her hips, to the tips of her ruby painted toenails, finally settling on a scar on her belly. He crawled back over her and leaned back on his heels, craning his neck upward to look at her briefly.

"Ah," he said. "This must be where you feel it."

He lowered his head then and pressed his lips against it, the scar she had received from birthing Amy, after thirty-two excruciating hours of labor. They had performed an emergency caesarean, leaving her with a small, but still, she felt, noticeable and ugly scar on her abdomen. And now, he was kissing the tightened skin, nearly worshipping it, as if it were the most beautiful part of her body. His hands smoothed over her inner thighs as he worked his way lower down, spreading her legs just a little further apart.

Grace may not have been experienced, but she certainly was not naive. She knew what he was about to do. "Luke," she breathed, trying to see clearly through the stars clouding her vision. "I—I don't know if I can—I mean—what if I'm not—"

He raised his head just slightly and his eyes were bright, focused. "If you truly do not wish me to, I will not. I will never bring you harm, my love, this I can promise you." He laid a light kiss on the spot where her left thigh met her pelvis, giving it a quick flick of his tongue. He wrapped one hand around that thigh. "I only wish to love you in the best way I know how. Because you are not damaged. When life is given to a dream, it can be nothing but perfect."

Grace swallowed hard. She had already given him so much of herself; she trusted him with her daughter, the most precious thing in her world. She had told him things that she had not spoken to another in her life. She had given him her whole heart, to break or cherish, and wasn't that the most difficult thing she could do, after all was said and done? He made her feel beautiful and new and whole again, after years spent in a dark place of anger and pain, a place where she felt swallowed by grief. He was willing to do anything she wanted, and what she wanted most of all was to believe she could feel again.

"Yes," she whispered into the darkness of the room.

It had been difficult thus far to control his baser needs, and Loki needed no more than that one softly spoken word to release at least some of his desire onto her. He laid his mouth to her center, drawing gentle strokes with his tongue from one end to the other, tasting every ounce of passion spilling forth from her. She cried out, grasping at the blanket beneath her and then at his hair, which only served to drive him further into her. He seemed to know instinctively when to slow and when to quicken, when to trace maddening circles around her core and when to tease with gentle laps at her outer folds. He listened to her breathing for the cues he needed, working her into a panting, frenzied puddle beneath him. With his free hand, he undid the seal of his pants and loosened himself from their confines. It was becoming almost too much to bear.

Just as he began to feel her muscles seize around him, she started to protest. "Luke, wait—" She gasped, pushing back from him with a sudden jerk. He felt suddenly terrified, wondering if he had inadvertently caused her pain or panic. He immediately looked to her eyes for the answer and found only passion and lust within them. She pulled him up to her; sliding her hands down his back as he went and kissed him hard on the mouth. His lips were wet with her, the slightly bitter but still faintly sweet taste mingled with his icy breath.

"Not yet. Not like that," she said, and he knew what she was asking. He slid out of his pants then, so the two were naked and pressed together for the first time.

He looked long into the eyes of the woman he loved, searching now for his own answers. "Are you afraid, my love?"

She hesitated but eventually gave a small nod. He smiled at her, understanding, and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I have an idea. Do you trust me?"

"You know that I do," she said.

With that, he rolled onto his back, taking her along with him and positioning her on top of his hips, his hardness resting between her legs and against her folds. She threw her head back, laughing at the unexpected motion. He took her hands in his, resting them, joined, on the place their hips met.

"It warms me to see you smile," he said.

"You've warmed me in other ways," she replied. "I think—I think it's time I returned that favor."

The look she gave him then was loaded; full of love, lust, desire, empathy, trust, catharsis, light, darkness, beauty, and truth encompassed in one long, blue-eyed stare.

It was that look that broke him.

"I must confess something before I am lost to you," he said, pulling her down to him, leaning his forehead against hers, feeling their perspiration mingle together.

"Now?" She smiled, teasing him, hand languidly tracing the outline of his shoulders. "You have amazing timing."

"Hush, or I fear I shall lose my courage," he teased back, laying a hand on her hairline.

"I'm sorry. What is it?"

"I have had many lovers, Grace," he began, closing his eyes. "But you are the first for whom I have felt true and abiding affection. I once believed love was for children, for sentimental fools like my brother. But it was I who was the fool. I have spent many years in quiet isolation, discontent and angry with the world around me. I have felt slighted and betrayed, when I have brought it all on myself. I have only now begun to let go of my former self because of my affection for you, and because of yours for me. I have loved only you in my life, and I believe you are the only one who I am to love for the rest of it."

She felt tears building in her eyes and had to work to hold them back so that they did not fall onto his face. "Luke," she began. "What are you saying to me?"

"Please," he said, tears of his own starting to mist over his pupils as he opened his eyes and his heart to her, "say that you will remain with me, that you will never abandon me. I am a jealous, petty, selfish fool, redeemed only by your love and kindness. You have saved me, Grace, in ways I never knew I needed saved, and I cannot imagine living one day, let alone the rest of my life, without the constancy of your presence by my side."

She sat back up and was quiet for an endless moment, and he felt, for the first time, terrified of a woman's rejection. She studied him, heavy-lidded, and he watched her eyes carefully for any sign of a reaction. He could not read her, except for the feel of her touch on his chest, steadying herself atop him.

"If that's your idea of a marriage proposal," she said finally, running her hand over his taut stomach, sending tiny shivers through his nerves, "then my answer is that I am yours."

With that, she sank down onto him, gently as a dove. He could see the strain of her body's attempt to accommodate him, but her eyes never left his. Slowly, her face relaxed, and she leaned forward to kiss him. He moved his hands along her sides, down to her hips and over her thighs. He settled within her, feeling the sparks of her tightness constrict around him. He had to concentrate very hard to keep his Jotun form from appearing before her, but this only served to heighten the depths of his pleasure, for it kept him from climaxing too soon.

She began to rock gently back and forth, with his hands guiding her. She leaned one hand behind her to rest on his thigh, the angle allowing his hands access to her most sensitive parts. He took full advantage of this opportunity, rubbing the tiny bundle of nerves that was already sensitive from his earlier manipulations. She found the tears she had held back began to pool hot behind her eyes. She didn't care. She wanted to feel everything, and she was, and if there was too much, it was coming out in the tears rolling down her cheeks.

He could not remember when he had felt so many emotions rippling through his soul. He had become so accustomed to anger, pain, grief, sadness. It was as if, with each movement she made, Grace was replacing them with long-forgotten feelings of peace, wholeness, contentment, almost as if the wonder of a child had been restored within him.

When she found a rhythm, it did not take either of them long; the wait had been too long, and the emotions were too heightened and strong.

If Grace had feared that no one would make love to her or that she would never feel a loving touch for what it was, every ounce of that fear was blown apart by Loki's hands on her, by the feeling of him inside her, and by his gentle caresses in the aftermath.

If Loki had feared that he was too far gone, that he would never feel anything but anger and emptiness, that no one would ever see the good buried deep within the recesses of his broken soul, he was redeemed wholly by Grace's cries for him, by her sudden trembling around him, and by the feeling of her body wrapped around him when they were finished, spent and gasping.

It was as if this moment, this expression of their love, had fused not only their bodies but their souls together.


	29. Breaking Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Hold Her Closer by Blessid Union of Souls

The silence surrounded them like a warm blanket, penetrated only by the faint sounds of their slowly steadying breathing. Grace hadn't moved from her spot atop his body but had stretched her aching legs out to lay between his and had nestled her head to lay with her ear directly over his heart, hands on either side of his chest. Loki had one of his ankles wrapped around one of hers, and both arms draped over her back, fingers tracing a pattern of constellations across its blank canvas.

"Are you falling asleep?" Her voice was barely audible.

"Hardly," he replied.

"That makes one of us. I feel exhausted. And sore."

"Then I have done my job well."

She could tell he was pleased with himself. "Ass," she snorted. "But you're right. It's a good sore." There was a beat, and then she turned her head to rest her chin on his chest. "I love you," she said.

"And I, you." They were words he never imagined himself saying, and now he felt he would never tire of saying them. Her fingertips grazed his sides, tickling him slightly.

"And I'm sorry." He cocked his head, an unspoken question on his lips. "I'm sorry that I put you through hell to get here. I'm sorry that I was so difficult, and that I made you work so hard to convince me that you weren't out to get me. I'm sorry that I didn't trust you and that I was so hardheaded and borderline angry half the time. But mostly, I'm sorry that I didn't say it sooner because I've felt it for a long time now. It scared the hell out of me to admit it."

He pulled her closer to his chin so that he could rest it on the top of her head and placed a kiss on her frizzy hair, damp with sweat. "You have no need to make apologies to me. I require no explanations. I am not without my own fears and flaws, after all."

"You're never scared of anything," she said, sitting up a bit. "Since day one, you've been strong. Confident."

He let out a rueful laugh. "My dear, that confidence was but a mask for the insecurity I have felt my entire life. I never intended to lie to you, and in fact I have found it nearly impossible to do so. But until recently, I was merely a confident and skilled actor. My true confidence has come in my love for you, and for your child." He sighed, tracing the outline of Yggdrasil over her bare shoulders. "I once thought power over others was the way to earn respect and loyalty. But you have shown me that it is the exact opposite: power over others creates nothing but chaos..."

His words trailed off as his mind went to a distant place. He found himself thinking of all the pain and death he had caused in the last few years. The shattered lives of countless innocents, their blood shed on the very streets he had spent months walking with her. Silently, he began to beg forgiveness from those people as if that would bring them back or make them whole again.

And as for his own adoptive family, Odin could very well have put him to death for his actions, but instead showed him mercy at Thor's request. Thor was the one who had asked their father to send Loki back to Midgard, asked for his life to be spared. Thor, who Loki had nearly killed on multiple occasions. Could his brother ever find it in himself to forgive him for his many transgressions? Could his mother, whom he had shunned in his bitterness at the discovery of his true parentage, forgive him for his unparalleled rage?

Then, a terrible thought crashed upon his soul, one that had not occurred to him since the nightmare he had had months earlier. One that he had spent months fighting back. In his mad quest for power and his rush to war, he might well have nearly caused Grace's death, whether at his own hand or at her rapist's. He might never have known this love, might have taken this woman from all who loved her, and never would have been the wiser for it, never would have cared. And even now, he was still lying to her about who he truly was. But how could he tell her? How could he tell the woman he loved that he might well have been responsible for the nightmares that had befallen her? For all Loki's imagined slights, Grace had suffered actual pain. Surely, she could never understand what he had done or his reasons for it. If she knew the truth of his identity, she could never forgive him. There was no entity in all Nine Realms that could forgive him these sins, no matter how many good deeds or thoughts or requests or offerings he made.

Meanwhile, Grace brought her hand to his face and felt damp skin underneath her fingers. "Honey, what's wrong?"

He hadn't meant to spoil the moment, but nearly a century's worth of pain began spilling out, and once he had opened the gate, wild horses could not have dragged those emotions back in. "I have left so much chaos in my wake, Grace. I have done things that you could not imagine—terrible things, unforgivable things—I do not know how to begin to explain them..."

She sat up and climbed next to him. She pulled the blankets around them, drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around him. Heaving sobs wracked Loki's body, shaking him so hard that the entire bed rattled under them. He laid his head on her shoulder, burying his face so that she could not see the tears fall even though she could feel them against her skin. As she struggled to keep him upright against her, she thought back to the night he had woken her with his screams and wondered if he had been dreaming of those terrible things then.

"You listen to me," she said, a slight edge to her voice. "I have known terrible men. The MOST terrible man, in fact. Pure evil walks this earth, Luke. I've seen him with my own eyes, and he is a man with red hair who sits in a courtroom still thinking that he doesn't need forgiveness because he did nothing wrong. You are nothing like him. You are not terrible. You couldn't be if you tried. We have all done some terrible things. We have all made mistakes. It's part of being human."

He gripped her hair and her neck and her arms, trying to cling to all of her at once, as if he might lose her if he let go even for a second. His cries softened, but he would not look at her, ashamed of himself, ashamed of his lies but unable to speak the truth. She dropped her head to the place where his neck met his shoulder and kissed him, wishing she knew the words he needed to hear.

"But there are things I have done for which I do not know how to repent. I am sorry for them, but I fear there is no way to make them right," he cried.

"But don't you see? You're asking forgiveness. That's what makes you different, that's what makes you good. You know what you've done, and you're asking forgiveness. Not because you think you deserve it, but because you're sorry." He didn't say anything, but she knew he was listening. "I wouldn't be here if I thought even for a second that you were capable of anything remotely close to evil. I think my judgment is better than that. Do you understand? You are the person I love, the only love I've ever had. You are my best friend. You are my daughter's father. You are a good man, Luke Laufeyson. A good, decent, strong, beautiful man."

Suddenly, he pulled back from her. Tears were still falling from his eyes, which were reddened with pain. "Your daughter's father?"

She smiled at him, running a hand through his raven hair, pushing it away from his face. "You heard me."

"But I thought—"

"I can give her almost everything, Luke, but I could never give her the love of her biological father, even if I wanted to. You have given her something I never thought she would have, Luke. You're her father, in every way that counts, and for that alone, I will love you forever."

Loki's face crumpled anew, as if something powerful had just broken within him, and he lost what remained of his self-control. "I do not deserve it. I do not deserve you, her, any of this. I am not worthy of the family I have been given."

He let out the cry of an animal slowly dying, a werewolf's desperate howl in the darkness, the icy blast of winter against autumn's warmth. So, she held him tighter, rocked him, soothed him in her embrace until her breast was soaked. She laid soft kisses on his temple, stroked his hair, allowed him to wail and moan against her until there were no more tears left in him. She whispered affirmations of her love to him, over and over, the same simple phrases, anything she could think to quiet the storm raging before her. Finally, he began to calm, his grip on her loosening slightly. His wracked nerves caused his body to shake, but he was at least able to look at her again. She studied him, trying to ascertain his emotional stability.

"Oh," he said as if coming out of a dream. He leaned back against the pillows and his muscles relaxed. "Oh, my love, I am sorry. I did not mean to — to lose myself in that manner."

"Honey, I'm going to say the same thing to you now that you said to me earlier," she replied, settling in against him. "No apologies, no explanations."

His eyes burned from crying, so he closed them, focusing instead on that which he could not see. He breathed in her scent, her cotton candy perfume wafting up from her neck. He felt the comfort of the blankets she had pulled around them while he had sobbed on her shoulder. He timed the beats of her heart against his own until he was lost halfway between reality and a dream. Then, just as he was beginning to drift into the peacefulness of slumber, he heard the gentle sound of her voice pulling him back.

"Luke—earlier, when you asked me to stay with you—WAS that a marriage proposal?"

Loki's eyes remained closed, but he felt his heart begin to quicken. He wondered if she could feel it as well. He had not really considered the concept of marriage, as Midgardian standards dictated. On Asgard, marriage was an arranged affair, rarely for love, usually unhappy. His own adoptive parents had only recently grown to love and respect one another, after many years of merely coexisting. He realized that perhaps this was why he had resisted the very idea of love for such a long time. It seemed an unreachable, starry-eyed dream meant for children's stories, not at all the reality of a king's life. Still, he was not sure which answer Grace wanted to hear at present. So, he did what he did best: deflected.

"Would that please you?"

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She knew she loved him, of course. And in the aftermath of their lovemaking and the warmth—for the first time, warmth—of his naked body next to hers, she could easily say yes. But she also knew she was in the middle of an emotionally taxing life event and didn't want to make rash decisions based on those emotions.

"Right now, I know exactly two things that please me, Luke. The first is that an hour ago, I made love to the most extraordinary man in the world, and it was probably the most terrifying, but also the most beautiful experience I've ever had."

He smiled, finally feeling like himself again, and realizing that "feeling like himself" had an entirely new meaning now. "And what is the second?"

Grace gave him a look that was full of so much mischief it might have rivaled one of his own. "The second," she said, throwing her legs on either side of him and pressing her lips against his, "is that I want to do it again."


	30. Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Stand by Rascal Flatts

Grace wiped the mirror and watched the space cloud back over faintly with steam from her shower. Her mind felt just as foggy as the mirror, which was not a good place to be mentally, given the day's coming events. Leaning over the sink, she splashed her face with cold water. The waves of her hair fell in wet waves down her back, just barely grazing the towel wrapped around her body. She was only vaguely aware that she was dripping water on the floor behind her as she whipped her head back, the shock of the cool water doing nothing to release her brain from its vice. She knew she needed to move but didn't feel the sense of urgency she should have. Instead, she merely stood there, gazing at her reflection, wondering if it would still be intact at the end of the day. Once everyone had seen her, would she be able to see herself?

A quiet knock on the door jolted her from her silent meditation. Before she could speak, Loki poked his head into the room, steam immediately frizzing his hair, which was pulled into a loose ponytail behind his head. He was not dressed yet, still wearing the bottom half of the pajamas he had managed to climb into after their lovemaking the night before.

"You have been in here for quite some time," he said, taking a step into the room. "Is everything all right?"

She sighed and stretched her neck, rubbing at a sore spot on the back of it. "Yes."

Though she smiled, he saw through it immediately and shook his head, an admonishment. He had an uncanny way of knowing exactly when she wasn't truthful, even when she hadn't said a word.

"I cannot imagine enduring what you are about to endure," he said, coming to stand behind her and placing his arms around her stomach. "But you are a strong woman, Grace. Stronger than any I have known, and I have known fierce warriors in my time."

She stifled a laugh. "I'm hardly a warrior. I'm just a scared, pathetic girl forced to sit on a witness chair and talk about how someone violated me."

He looked at her reflection, becoming clearer as the fog in the room lifted around them. "I certainly understand fear, but fear and weakness are not one and the same," Loki said, his voice rolling like waves in the harbor. He brought a hand up and moved her damp hair away from her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her neck. She shivered against his lips. "Courage, my love, is not the absence of fear. Courage is the recognition of your fear and the willingness to face it. That is what you are doing today. And I will be there to support you. That is my privilege, a king's duty to his queen."

With that, he released her from his grip, but she spun around to face him, catching him in hers. She gave him a playfully menacing look. "We've been officially together for two weeks, and you think you can just walk into my bathroom, unannounced, me half naked, and just make everything okay with a kiss on the neck and a few sweet words in that accent of yours?"

He considered this for a moment, and then kissed her on the mouth, his lips warming hers. Her body went limp between the sink and the hands that grazed up her arms, causing goosebumps along her flesh. "I do," he said.

"Oh, fine," she sighed, breaking away. "You can."

He smirked, satisfied with himself, and then stepped backward away from her. "As much as you know I would love to lick every bead of water from your skin," he said, "I believe our daughter may require breakfast before I deposit her at your mother's apartment." He bowed his head in deference to her and left the bathroom.

Grace smiled. She could hear him talking to Amy through the door, asking what she would like to eat. He always spoke to Amy as though she were merely a small adult, never condescending in the slightest. Amy was, in response, affectionate and clung to him as only a daughter clings to a father. But, at the same time was becoming a strong child, independent and fierce in a way that Grace had always hoped she would be. But, she realized, this was the first time she had heard him refer to Amy as "their" daughter. She had never imagined wanting to share her with anyone else. Amy had always been hers, only hers, and she was selfish in that regard. But with Luke, it was so easy, natural. There was no question in her mind and hadn't been since the night she had first said it to him. He was her baby's father in every way that mattered, and she had no qualms about sharing Amy with him.

She had often wondered how she would ever begin to tell Amy the origins of her birth, and why she did not have a father. Now, listening to Luke tell Amy the story of the one and only time he bested his brother in swordplay and then hearing a short curse as, she was sure, Amy knocked a spoonful of her breakfast into his face, Grace laughed to herself. At least when the time came, Amy might not feel deprived of a father's love, because she would have had the love of a man who was everything a father should be.

* * *

"The prosecution calls Grace Lawson."

Andrea stood next to the prosecutor's table, as Grace was escorted into the room by the bailiff from the hallway where she had been seated since her arrival at court that morning. She was the day's star witness, the culmination of the prosecution's case. As she walked with faux confidence past the burnished banister of the gate separating the gallery from the players, she knew all eyes were on her. But as she was seated in the witness box, she focused only on one pair of eyes, bright green and fixed on her own. Loki had promised her he would be there, and he had not lied to her. He sat rigidly, silently communicating with her, as if she could hear his words in her own mind.

_I have no plans to leave your side._

It took all her strength, but Grace glanced to the defense table. Scott McAndrews sat as he had the entire trial, hands folded on the tabletop, smiling slightly in the jury's direction, as if he were not on trial at all. As if he were a mere observer in this process. As if he had not raped her at all.

Andrea approached the witness box. Grace gritted her teeth. This was her chance. She had prepared for this, over and over during the last two weeks. She was ready. She would not fail. She could not.

"Could you state your name for the record, please?"

"Grace Miriam Lawson." She spelled it out for the court reporter, along with her address.

"Thank you," Andrea responded. "Now. Can you please tell us where you were on the afternoon of June 1, 2012?"

Grace cleared her throat. "I was in my apartment in Manhattan, just around the corner from where Captain America evacuated that bank before it blew up. Literally a block away."

"And why were you there? Why didn't you leave the city with the rest of the masses who were fleeing in the aftermath of the invasion?"

"I thought it would be safer to stay where I was," Grace said. "It was chaos out there, a lot of people were looting, and I didn't want to risk getting hurt by trying to leave my apartment. I figured my apartment was safe since they had stopped the invasion."

Andrea nodded. "And, Ms. Lawson, can you tell us what you were doing that afternoon, in your apartment?"

"I got up late," she replied. "No one was going to work, so I slept in. It was probably around noon when I decided to take a shower, so I was in my bedroom getting into my bathrobe at that time."

"When did you first become aware that someone was in your apartment?"

Grace swallowed hard, looking down at her lap. "When he entered my bedroom and grabbed me from behind."

"Were you expecting anyone?"

"No."

"Did you have any idea who this person was?"

"Not a clue."

"All right," Andrea said, turning to face the jury. "Now, I know this is difficult, but please, tell us what happened next."

Grace hesitated for a moment and looked at Scott McAndrews again. There was still a blankness on his face as if he truly did not recognize the seriousness of the story she was about to tell. Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he bought his own bullshit.

It didn't matter to her. He did it, and he deserved to answer for it, whether or not he wanted to. "He grabbed me around the waist, like I said, and put his hand over my mouth. He had a knife pressed into my back. He told me not to scream or else he would kill me, and that if I did what he said, he'd let me live. I was terrified. It was like every nightmare I ever had coming true."

Andrea nodded, crossing her arms.

"So then," Grace continued, "He—he kept the knife in his hand, but he took his hand off my mouth. I was too scared to scream because I saw the knife and he wasn't kidding; it was real, and he could have killed me with it. He shoved me down, bent over my bed. I was only wearing my bathrobe at this point because I had been getting ready to shower..."

Grace was suddenly very uncomfortable, and embarrassed. She was terrible at dirty talk with the man she loved—how could she describe this vile act well enough to impress upon the jury the seriousness of what he had done? Then she realized the only way to describe it was to just put it in terms that were as vile as the act itself.

"He bent me over the bed, lifted my bathrobe, and unzipped his pants. Then she shoved his penis into me, hard, no warning, nothing. I wasn't prepared, and almost immediately, I felt blood dripping down my legs. I screamed, but he shoved my face down into the bed and held it there so I could barely breathe. He still had the knife in his hand, and I was terrified that he would stab me the entire time."

Grace took in a deep breath and heard her own voice in her head.  _Luke. Can you hear me? I'm so sorry..._

She suddenly found herself unable to look at him, despite a keen awareness of his eyes on her. She wanted nothing more than to find the comfort of his gaze at this moment, but he had never heard the gory details of what had happened to her. She could not bear to see the pain she knew would be there if she were to look at his face right now.

"Did he say anything to you during the assault?"

"Yes," Grace replied, her voice becoming shakier with each response she gave. "He—he said, 'You like that, don't you? You're a bad little slut.' I'll never forget it because I had no idea why he would say those things when he had no reason to think those things about me."

"Why did he have no reason to think those things?"

"Well, first, I had no idea who he was, so how would he know? And second, I was a virgin. Which is why I bled—"

"Objection," DiGorga piped up from the defense table. "Speculation."

"Sustained," the judge replied.

Andrea winced slightly but continued with her direct.

"What happened next?"

"I don't know how long it went on. But when he was finished, he pulled up his pants and kept the knife at my back. He told me if I went to the police that he would come back and finish me off."

"Did you believe him?"

"I don't know. I sort of went on autopilot at some point, so after he left, I somehow got myself together and went to the hospital."

"Do you remember how you got there?"

"No," Grace admitted. "I just remember being there, having someone do a rape kit, and then being back at home. It became kind of a blur."

"Okay," Andrea said, crossing back to face Grace, giving her an encouraging sort of smile. "Now, tell the jury how you found out you were pregnant."

"Um, well, a few weeks after the assault, I kept getting really sick. I thought it was just stress at first, but it kept happening, and then my period stopped. That's when I started to suspect it, so I went to my doctor, and he confirmed it. I had Amy just under nine months after the attack."

"Objection to the continued use of the word 'attack,'" DiGorga said, standing up. "It mischaracterizes the nature of the contact between my client and the witness."

"Oh please." Andrea rolled her eyes.

"Overruled," the judge said. "Sit down, Mr. DiGorga."

"Grace, before the Defendant was arrested, did you ever have Amy paternity tested?"

Grace shook her head. "I knew the person who got me pregnant was my attacker, and I didn't care to find out who he was. I didn't want his involvement in my child's life."

"Have you had any contact with the Defendant since discovering that he is Amy's father?"

Grace caught a flash of Loki's eyes at Andrea's use of the phrase "Amy's father," and couldn't hold her tears back any longer. They fell carelessly from her eyes, as she knew how those words must have sounded to him. She shook her head.

"No. Never. Not once."

Andrea nodded. "Nothing further at this time," she said, sitting back down at the prosecutor's table as Dennis DiGorga arose, buttoning his suit coat and straightening his tie. He smiled warmly at Grace, a faux attempt to obtain her trust, which he knew he would not get, but needed to show the jury he would try to earn regardless.

"So, you say you never met my client before your alleged attack?"

She nodded. "That's right."

"Do you happen to remember a Christmas party that your law firm held two years before the event in question?"

"I remember we had one. I don't remember much about it."

"Is that because you were intoxicated?"

"Objection!" Andrea jumped up from the prosecutor's table.

"Withdrawn," DiGorga said quickly. "Do you remember attending the party?"

"I—yes, I remember attending the party."

"And do you remember being introduced to Mr. McAndrews as a client of your firm's at that party?"

She felt like she'd just been slapped. Andrea looked on helplessly, as she had no valid objection to this line of questioning. "N—no."

"Isn't it true that you were introduced to my client at this party two years before this alleged attack, and that that's where your affair began?"

"Absolutely not," she replied. "There was no affair. He raped me."

DiGorga pulled a color photograph from the stack of documents in front of him. "Exhibit A, your honor. A picture of my client and the partner that Ms. Lawson works for taken at the Christmas party in question." He walked the photo to the judge, who looked at it, nodded, and had the bailiff pass it to the jury. "Now, Ms. Lawson, would you care to change your answer to my previous question?"

She shook her head. "No. There was no affair," she repeated. "He raped me."

DiGorga changed course. "All right. Now, Ms. Lawson, you claim you were a virgin when you had sex with my client, is that right?"

"I don't claim it, it's the truth."

"You're how old?"

"I was twenty-six at the time."

He seemed incredulous. "And you expect the jury to believe that, at twenty-six years old, you were, what, saving yourself for the right man?"

Loki sat up, clearly uncomfortable, but his face betrayed nothing. He only wanted to remain strong for her. That was his job right now. His one job in the world. To protect her, the best way he could, and what she needed from him now was strength, communicated across a room full of doubt. He tried to make eye contact, but she would not look at him.

"Yes," she replied. "I was. That's how I was raised, and that was my plan. I never would have agreed to have sex with your client or had an affair with him."

DiGorga raised his eyebrow. "And is that still your plan?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said. She did not like where this was going, but she certainly wasn't going to help him along. If he had a question, she was going to make damn sure he had to ask it in as terrible and insensitive a way as possible.

"Well," DiGorga began, crossing to stand exactly where Andrea had stood to face the jury during her own examination, "can you please tell the jury who Luke Laufeyson is?"

Grace felt her vision go white, and she thought for a moment she had misheard. Somewhere in the distance, Andrea objected, and DiGorga explained that it would go to the credibility of the witness. The judge, inexplicably, allowed it but warned DiGorga that he was on the thinnest of ice.

Grace swallowed, a rock forming in her chest. "Luke is the man I am living with."

"And how long have you been living with him?"

"Just under a year," she replied.

"And are you sexually active with him?"

"Objection, your honor."

"Your honor," DiGorga shrugged, "this witness claims she was saving herself for her husband, and that that's why she never would have agreed to have sex with my client, so it's only fair to ask her about the current arrangement she's in."

"Sustained," the judge replied. "You know better than that, Mr. DiGorga." It didn't matter. The damage was done, the implication made.

But then, Grace looked at Loki for the first time the entire time she was on the stand. His eyes burned hers, pain storming through them. Two fingers were pressed to his lips, his eyebrows pushed together. She knew what he was thinking—that he had somehow caused this, that he had sullied her, that his relationship with her had made this trial even harder than it already would have been. She knew what she had to do, despite her own deep desire to end this quickly and quietly.

"Your honor, I want to answer that."

The judge furrowed his brow but nodded. Andrea looked deeply concerned but knew there was nothing she could do. Objecting to the witness answering the question when she wanted to would just hurt her own case.

"Yes," Grace said, plainly, with almost a hint of pride. "I am sexually active with him. I love him. We might as well be husband and wife. We are in a committed relationship, which includes sex. He takes care of me and has helped me raise this child. He shares everything with me, including this trial. He is the one I was saving myself for until your client decided otherwise for me."

For a second, DiGorga seemed knocked for a loop. His tanned face flashed a hint of irritation, but he quickly reverted to his slick, nearly irreverent demeanor.

"Well," he said, finally, walking back to the defense table. "Isn't that just right out of a storybook?"


	31. Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: All In by Lifehouse

"So, Ms. Lawson, shall we continue where we left off?" Dennis DiGorga's cross-examination had been interrupted by the judge, who had suggested an hour recess for lunch just after DiGorga had questioned her about her relationship. DiGorga had almost protested, not wanting to leave the jury on the note Grace left them—responding to his insinuation about her sexual history with a declaration of a relationship—but he had no choice. Now, he seemed determined to undermine her response as though there had been no interruption whatsoever.

Grace and Loki had spent the lunch recess in relative silence, eating sandwiches Vivian had sent them off with in the privacy of one of the witness rooms. Loki had watched her carefully but did not want to interrogate her further, and for that matter, he had enough to think about. Ruminating over the picture she'd weaved that morning, he felt at fault, and nothing Grace could have offered would have convinced him otherwise. Not only had his own selfish motives caused the circumstances that led to her rape, now, his love for her had been the cause of further torment here. No absolution would be forthcoming, unless, of course, he was able to tell her the truth of his identity, and he knew that in doing so, he would lose her forever.

Still, sitting back in the gallery after the recess had ended, he was unsure how long he could continue the charade. This lawyer knew enough about their relationship to use it against her. How long could he keep up the pretense of being someone he wasn't, before he was found out?

"Ms. Lawson, are you ready?" DiGorga repeated himself.

"As if I have a choice," she replied indignantly.

Instead of objecting, he smiled. Her attitude, he believed, meant he was getting to her in some way. He approached her coolly, having regained his composure over lunch, and adjusted his suit coat to fall over his slightly bulging belly.

"So, you say you are raising this child of yours alone, with no support from my client, is that right?"

"That's correct," she said.

"Well, why haven't you sought child support? Surely you realize Mr. McAndrews is a wealthy man. He could very well afford to provide support for his child."

"First of all, Amy is not HIS child," she spat. As soon as it left her mouth, she regretted it. She was playing right into DiGorga's hands and she knew it.

"Objection, your honor," he said.

"Sustained," the judge responded. "Please, just answer the question, Ms. Lawson."

She shifted in the chair, which was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. Behind his attorney, McAndrews looked sheepishly at his hands, almost as if to display mock embarrassment at being born wealthy. His skin flushed the same pink as Amy's for a moment, and Grace felt herself getting dangerously close to flying off in a fit of rage. She took a deep, long breath. "As I told Ms. Marks, I want him to have nothing to do with my child."

DiGorga shook his head in faux disbelief and shot a disbelieving smirk to the jury. But then, he followed up with an unexpected question. "Isn't it true, Ms. Lawson, that when you had sex with my client, you were not on birth control?"

She did not know how to answer this. The answer was that she was not on birth control at that time, but the way DiGorga phrased the question made it seem like answering truthfully would be an admission of something else entirely. She hesitated but answered, choosing her words carefully.

"I—no, I was not on birth control at the time, because—"

"And didn't you deliberately avoid using birth control so that you could become pregnant, in the hopes that Mr. McAndrews would be persuaded to stay in a committed relationship with you?"

She stammered. "I—no—"

"Isn't it a fact that when Mr. McAndrews refused a relationship with you, you decided that pursuing child support would mean that the circumstances of your pregnancy would come to light and you simply could not handle the shame that it would bring to you and your family?"

She should have cried, and no one would have blamed her. But something curious took over her brain at this accusation designed as a question. She flashed back suddenly to when she first met Luke, to the deep, slow-burning anger she had sensed. Not violent, but self-protective, a way to keep out the world and to save his own heart from being wounded. She found herself channeling that now, a way to fight the monster standing in front of her while still maintaining her dignity.

Before Andrea could object, she said, "I had no relationship with him, nor did I want one. And I was not on birth control because, as I have already told you, I was and had planned to stay, a virgin." She felt Luke's eyes on her, urging her on, his warrior, into battle, armed to the teeth with the tools he had given her: faith, courage, love, and a bright, burning anger that she had welded into a strong, unbreakable sword. "And as for being ashamed of myself? You're right about that."

DiGorga stepped backward, stunned by her apparent revelation of culpability. He seemed satisfied and began to walk back to the defense table to take his seat, when she finished her statement.

"I was ashamed of myself, for a very long time. Ashamed that I had been violated, embarrassed to be damaged. But your client is the one who should be ashamed. Your client is a rapist, and nothing he does will ever make up for it. Some things, we don't get to stop being ashamed of. Ever."

She had the presence of mind to look at the jury then. One of the women, a young, beautiful blonde, had tears in her eyes. The older Hispanic man was sitting with his thick arms crossed, glaring at Scott McAndrews, who was staring blankly at Grace, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. It was the first time she had seen any sort of reaction from him during the entire trial. She knew before she even left the witness stand what the verdict would be.

* * *

"You truly were a wonder today, my love," Loki said, tossing some money into the bill folder on the table at City Bakery and beginning to bundle Amy in her light autumn coat. She no longer fussed when he dressed her, though. She still disliked wearing shoes, however, and fought him every time he tried to put them on her. Tonight, he and Grace decided, they wouldn't bother. Tonight was a night for a celebration of strength, and their daughter was growing into quite the little warrior herself.

She shrugged. "I only hope the jury saw him for what he is. He was so calm and collected during most of this thing—a great goddamn liar."

Loki's ears burned and he ignored the itching in his throat. He kissed Amy on the top of her head and attempted, poorly, to put her hat on. Grace stifled a giggle. There were many things he was good at as a father, but despite what she allowed him to think, dressing Amy was still not one of his strengths. Finally, when she couldn't allow him to make a fool of himself any longer, Grace took Amy from his arms. She knelt on the floor, sat Amy on a chair, and straightened the girl's hat to bundle most of her curls under it. He watched her as if he was studying for an examination, but he was merely storing the demonstration away for future use. No book could have taught him as much about child rearing as being with Grace had.

"We really do need to get her hair cut soon," she said, giving up gathering the curls under the hat and allowing them to poke out from the bottom.

"Did I ever tell you about how I cut my brother's childhood girlfriend's hair as a small boy?"

She threw her head back and laughed. His breath caught in his chest, and he realized all over again how beautiful she was. Her dimples stood out with her smile, which dazzled him every time, but tonight left him speechless. Her eyes were gray but bright, and when she looked up at him, though she was the one kneeling, he felt he should worship her. For the first time in months, since the beginning of this ordeal, she seemed truly at ease with the world around her. She looked like the woman he had first met, the woman who had first captured his mind and then his heart. Perhaps this was the life he was truly meant to have. Perhaps this was the lesson Odin had meant for him to learn.

"I'm going to grab a cab for us," she said, hoisting Amy higher up on her hip.

"I shall be along presently," he replied. "I need to make use of the facilities."

"I've told you before," she laughed, giving him a pat on his rear as he turned, "you can just say you have to pee."

He smirked. "Your vulgarity is absolutely ravishing, my darling." Then, he took her face gently in his left hand and brought her chin up so that his lips could meet hers. He kissed her a little more passionately than he meant to, but something deep in his chest told him not to worry about the stares of others or the way his body responded to the way her tongue slipped along his lips. He pulled away reluctantly but told himself there would be time for more of this later that evening after he had begun the first chapter of "The Hobbit" with Amy.

Grace took Amy and stepped out into the chilly evening air. She inhaled, taking in the crisp breeze around her. Autumn in the city was always her favorite time of the year, next to Christmas. She could breathe and smell something besides garbage and pollution, which always seemed to be worse during the heavy, humid months of summer. Everything somehow smelled cleaner, fresher, newer. The sky was threatening rain, but for now, she could still see a few stars despite the clouds and the bright lights of the city. She turned to her right, trying to get the attention of one of the cabs dotting the street.  _Always more difficult with a baby,_  she thought. She never seemed to have this trouble when she was just another young, single girl.

She wasn't watching her left side. She didn't see him come out of the darkness, and the relative emptiness of the street made it all too easy for him to see her. The fiery red curls on the child she was carrying against her breast didn't hurt, either.

Just as she managed to hail a cab down, she felt something sharp against the outside of her coat. Terror began to rise in her throat, and she didn't even have time to scream before a familiar, soft, menacing voice spoke quietly in her ear. She smelled alcohol on his breath, masked faintly by the scent of cheap mouthwash. "I told you I'd come back and finish you off. And besides, I wanted to meet my daughter."

"What are you—"

Holding the knife at her lower back, Scott McAndrews whispered again into her ear. "Don't scream. Do not do anything except what I tell you, if you want every curl on her head left untouched. Into the alley."

He motioned toward the side of the restaurant, where the deliveries were dropped. Grace looked around without moving her head. Where was Luke? If she could just stall McAndrews long enough, Luke would come out and do to McAndrews what he had done to that mugger the first night they'd met. Other than that, the only thing she was focused on was keeping Amy calm, so she knew she had to remain calm herself. With the blade against the thin fabric of her jacket, he marched her into the alley and turned her around, up against the wall of the restaurant.

She murmured soothing sounds to Amy, as if nothing were out of the ordinary at all. "It's okay, baby. It'll be okay." She feared if Amy were to start fussing, in his state, McAndrews might become angry and combined with his obviously inebriated state, do something stupid. Amy seemed wonderfully unaware of what was going on.

The minute she was pressed against the cold brick wall, McAndrews held the knife to her side, but at least it was the side opposite from the hip on which she was balancing Amy. She could barely make out his face in the darkness of the alley, but she could see him leering at the child, examining her carefully.

"Damn. She is my kid, isn't she?" He was fixed on her curls, falling out from under her hat. "At least we made a good looking one, huh?"

He brought the knife up and drew it across Grace's neck, barely grazing it but drawing blood. "You proud of yourself now, bitch? Sure seemed like it in court today."

"How—how did you find me?" She thought if she could just keep him talking, it would give her time to think of a way out of this.

"It's not that hard to follow someone with a kid that looks like that—especially when you've got a giant guy like your new boyfriend following you around like a puppy. Where's your bodyguard now, though?" He looked around, pupils dilated with drunken fury.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But it doesn't matter. Scott, you don't want to do this. You're a lot of things, but you're not a murderer."

"How do you know what I am?" He snarled at her, leaning over her, the hand not holding the knife pressed against the wall, blocking her movements. "You don't know a goddamn thing. Think you're so fucking special. Think you can do whatever you want."

He brought the knife to her throat then, and then a cold steel froze his eyes over. He took Amy's hat off, exposing her ringlets to the cold night air. She started to sense something was amiss, and her face scrunched into concern. She looked from her mother to the stranger with the angry scowl on his face and back again, growing restless. Then, he pressed a kiss to her pale, soft cheek, a disgusting smirk crossing his face.

"Once you're gone, she'll be mine, and you won't be able to do a damn thing about it."

Suddenly, a bizarre flash of icy blue sailed between Grace and the man holding her hostage, and she felt herself falling to the ground, cupping Amy safely to her chest to protect her from the fall. She felt like she had been blown backward in a great hurricane and was temporarily blinded by the light around her.

"You! You vile, contemptuous, MONSTROUS animal! Move and I shall kill you, and do not think me in a gaming mood."

She had never, ever heard such rage in it, but she knew Luke's voice when she heard it.

McAndrews' voice, in the distance somewhere, sounded positively terrified. "I—what ARE you?"

 _If that mugger was afraid, he's probably pissing in his pants,_  Grace thought.

"I should think you should be more concerned with how you are going to beg for death when I am through with you," Loki replied, snarling. He was thirty seconds from murder, and he knew it, and no longer cared. He had sat through months of watching Grace torture herself over what this man had done to her, struggled to maintain composure through her testimony that day, parented the child this demon had created. He had not been able to spare her the suffering she had endured, but he could avenge her now.

"I—I—" McAndrews had no words, apparently. Meanwhile, Grace struggled to focus, cradling Amy, trying to protect her from seeing whatever was going on at the other end of the alleyway. In her daze, she understood that he was attempting to protect her, but she couldn't let him do this. She was safe now, and Scott McAndrews would be in jail soon. It would do no good for Luke to end up in prison, too.

"Luke—" It came out as little more than a whisper, but it was enough. McAndrews dropped the knife, taking off the minute Loki loosened his grip, still too terrified to speak in more than broken syllables. But it was too late. Grace had gotten to her feet and was looking at Loki with a face that was a mixture of horror, confusion, panic, fear, and anger.

She repeated the question McAndrews had asked. "Luke—why is your—what ARE you?" It then occurred to Loki that he was colder than usual.

Grace gripped Amy protectively in her arms. But Amy did not seem scared.

Because she had seen it before.

He whispered his words as quietly as she had whispered the name she had come to know him by. They came out in a frosty breath, as blue as the color of his skin.

"I am Loki," he said, and then added hesitantly, "of Asgard."


	32. The Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Manhattan by Sara Bareilles (seriously, download. this. song.)

Grace stared at him, unmoving—actually, unable to move. She could only focus on the fact that the man standing in front of her looked like he had just stepped out of an Avatar costume contest, except that his voice was Luke's voice and he was wearing Luke's clothes. Patterned ridges lined his face and his eyes were blood red, except for jet-black pupils. Neither of them said anything for what seemed like eternity. Loki was too surprised that he was able to utter his own name once more, and Grace was trying to both recover from McAndrews' assault and take in what was in front of her without fainting again. When she found her voice, she closed her eyes before repeating the question.

"What are you?"

"I am still the man you thought me to be, my love," he said, glancing down at his skin, which was slowly, mercifully, returning to its normal color.

"Uh, apparently not," she replied, heat rising from her collar. "I'm going to ask you one more time before I scream bloody murder. What. Are. You?"

He lowered his eyes. "My name is Loki. I come from Asgard. It is beyond this planet. He hesitated, internally groaning. "You have heard of Thor?"

"Of course," Grace said, impatient. "He was one of the Avengers. He was here during the attack. His brother—"

Loki closed his eyes and waited for the onslaught. He had been through enough battles in his life to know there was always a storm to follow the calm, and he knew as soon as she put together what he had just said with what she could remember from the attack, he would have no weapon or defense strong enough to withstand her attack. Truthfully, he did not want to fight her. He wanted to take whatever punishment she felt fit to dole out and try to salvage what he could of their relationship. Then, suddenly, it was as if a fog lifted and a dark storm cloud descended at the same time.

"Oh my God," she said, without the faintest hint of irony. She had realized who and what he was. His secrets were laid bare and now there was nowhere to hide from them.

"Grace," he began. "I do not know how to begin to explain this, but again, I am the same—"

"So let me see if I've got this right," she cut him off. Her voice was eerily calm. "You came down here two years ago and commandeered an alien army to take over my planet. You nearly destroyed the city I love in the process, along with killing who knows how many people. Your brother and his friends put a stop to that little plan. Remind me to send him a thank you note for that, by the way. So they keep you from taking over this planet, but they keep you here. Why?"

He hesitated, unsure whether the question was rhetorical. When she pursed her lips, he realized she expected an answer. He lowered his eyes to the ground, ashamed of himself for having to admit any of this. "Truthfully, my fath—Odin, the man who raised me—wanted to kill me. I probably deserved it. But my brother suggested that I be sent back here to learn—humility, I suppose, and to witness what my actions caused."

Grace shifted Amy to her other hip, still listening. Her face betrayed nothing, no trace of emotion at all, which scared him more than if she had come at him screaming and swinging.

"At first, I wanted only to return home and seek vengeance upon my brother and all those I felt had wronged me. But then I met you and your beautiful child, and I became focused elsewhere—"

Then, it came. Worse than he had ever imagined, it came, and it was not what he expected. Anger would have been better. It was not anger, though, that poured out of Grace. It was, instead, a deep, abiding, excruciating pain, a brokenness rivaling only that which he had seen the first time he saw her cry. But this time, there would be no story he could weave from his mother's childhood tales to soothe the ache in her soul. He found himself wishing Odin had just swung the axe when he had the chance.

"Focused on what?" Grace's voice began to rise. "Maintaining all the lies you've told me about your life? God, your name wasn't even real!"

"I could not tell you my name," he said, trying to explain quickly so that she would understand. "I was not permitted—"

"And so, what, you just found the first gullible, vulnerable girl you could charm and slithered your way into her—oh my God. I can't believe we—that I trusted you enough to—oh my God. Oh my GOD." She wept into Amy, holding her close, unwilling to look at him. "Was it ever real, Luke? Loki? Whatever your name is? Any of it? Anything you said? Or was it all just to get me into bed?"

His stomach dropped. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words would not come, none that he could think that would express adequately what he felt: that he was sorry for all of this, but most of all, he was sorry for every pain he had caused her, especially this one. Then, he found himself looking at Amy. The sweet, darling child with whom he had bonded so closely. The child he would now, quite likely, never have the chance to watch grow up. He would break dozens of promises he'd made without meaning to, and the worst part was, Amy would never know because she was young enough yet that she would surely forget him in time. That was what hurt the most.

"Oh my God," she repeated, another realization hitting her in the stomach as she watched him looking at her daughter. Then, a whisper: "You. You did this."

"What?" His voice sounded almost childlike in its pain.

Her eyes were so blue that they might have lit on fire. "If you hadn't come down here, if you hadn't tried to obliterate everything in your way, if the cops hadn't been so busy fixing the mess you created, then Scott McAndrews never would have been able to touch me."

She was talking a mile a minute, and he couldn't keep up. He knew what she was saying was the truth, and as much as he wanted to argue, to fight it, he couldn't. He knew she was right, right about everything, and nothing he could say could comfort her. Her body began to shake, she was sobbing so hard. And then, he couldn't help it anymore. It was a reflexive, instinctive reaction to seeing her cry, and he didn't even think about what might be swirling in her head. All he wanted was to create comfort where there was chaos, to restore the order he knew, where she loved him, believed him, had faith in him. He crossed the alley and tried to take her and Amy into his arms as he had thousands of times before.

He should have expected what happened next but didn't realize just how far he had pushed her until he felt the hard slap that landed across his cheek. It barely stung his face but pierced him in a way that a thousand swords could not have. He stepped back, staring at her, eyes watery with rejection and unbearable, unspeakable pain. And then he looked at Amy, her arms around her mother, clearly not understanding why her parents were acting this way.

"Grace, I cannot be absolved of my lies and my past. I know this. Nothing in this world or any other can make amends for the pain I have caused you or anyone else. It is my responsibility, entirely mine, that you were hurt as you were, and I added to that hurt unintentionally with my lies and deceit. I was selfish and fell in love with you when I had absolutely no right to. I told you once that I did not deserve the family I was given, and now you understand why."

Grace had stopped crying, but only stared at him with a look that he did not recognize. She cleared her throat, and for a second, he had hope in his heart that perhaps she was trying to understand, trying to make room for the possibility of loving him as she always had. Her irises were saucers, full of everything from the last year of their lives together. She remembered the first night they met, the way he talked to her on the roof of the museum, how he held her hand at the Christmas tree. She thought about the first time he held her when she cried, about the Norns. She remembered the first time he kissed her, the first time he'd touched her. And then she thought about the first time she'd ever seen him with Amy, who was reaching out for him now, trying desperately to grasp for his touch, the only father she'd ever known. The second man who had ripped her mother's heart to shreds.

"Just get away from me. I don't ever want to see you again." She turned and headed out of the alley, and then stopped and gave him one last, pitiful look. "Some things, we don't get to stop being ashamed of. Ever."

* * *

Suddenly, Loki felt himself being evaporated, sucked into space, a strong, fierce grip on the back of his neck. He saw flashes of red and silver around him and instantly knew who was dragging him back. At the same time, he felt his armor sheathing over his frame, weighty and cumbersome compared to his Midgardian clothes. He should have been delighted. This was what he had longed for, dreamed of, for months. But he had not expected it, nor did he particularly want it, at that precise moment. But what else was he to do? Grace had gone to pick up the pieces of her life without him. He was so distracted that he barely caught himself before crashing to the floor of the Bifrost in a heap. Heimdall looked down on him, smiling just slightly, his amber eyes alight.

"It is good to see you again, your highness," he said in his deep baritone.

Loki nodded, dusting himself off and straightening his forest green cape. "As if you have not been watching me this entire time, gatekeeper," he said, not unkindly.

Heimdall chuckled. "I would be remiss in my duties to do otherwise."

Thor stepped forward into line with Loki, clutching Mjolnir to his side. Gently, he took Loki by the upper arm. "Brother, are you not wondering why I have brought you home?"

As Thor looked at his brother, he sensed a significant change—even more than what he had observed with Heimdall the last few months. The difference was palpable in person, and nearly heartbreaking to behold. For the first time since they were children, Thor sensed humility in Loki. And, perhaps, a smattering of sadness.

Loki turned to face the man who he had, not so very long ago, fought on this very spot. Thor's eyes were kind, but his voice was urgent. However, while Loki was standing in Asgard, his mind was still on Midgard. He wanted nothing more than to ask Heimdall to find Grace, tell him she was, at the very least, safely at home and away from the putrid excuse for a human from whom he had saved her. He wanted to know she had stopped crying, that she was with her mother, that Amy was by her side. He wanted to know if she was thinking about him, talking about him, or if she was merely erasing him from her life.

"Brother?" Thor squeezed Loki's arm gingerly, bringing him back to the present. "Did you hear me?" Loki nodded. "The Allfather wishes to speak with you. I was with Jane in New Mexico and he summoned me to bring you home."

A new fear fell across Loki's face, and he stiffened. "Am I for the axe?"

Thor shook his head, his blue eyes shining with peace and pride. "No, Loki. You have been punished enough."

As they walked from the Bifrost toward the palace, Loki felt his magic slowly surging within his body. It had been so long since he had felt it that he had almost forgotten how to use it. He knew it would take some time before his power was completely restored, but he suddenly had an idea. Halfway down the rainbow bridge, he stopped, and Thor paused along with him. "Loki, Father is waiting."

Loki's eyes pleaded with Thor's, and his face lined with pain. "Brother. Please."

Thor understood, and stood silently alongside his adopted sibling, the red next to the green, reminding Loki of the Christmas tree he'd looked at with Grace so long ago. He closed his eyes, summoning all his strength into his fingertips. When he felt them glow, he opened his eyes, at the same time shooting fractals into the sky before them, dusting diamonds through the galaxy. He stared at his work for just a moment before heading off with Thor again, hoping with all his heart that it would be enough, but knowing that even if it wasn't, it was all he had to give.

* * *

Grace sat on the roof of the building, legs dangling off the side, a box of Kleenex and a bottle of wine by her side. She had asked her mother to come stay in her apartment with Amy after she had gotten the girl to sleep. Immediately, Vivian knew something was wrong, but all Grace would say was that she and Luke were done. She wouldn't even comment on the small gash on her neck, other than to assure Vivian that Luke hadn't caused it. There would be plenty of time to explain it all later, and she would need all the time in the world, given that she had just discovered that the love of her life was a murderous alien. For now, she just wanted a bottle of wine and the autumn sky.

She had no idea where he had gone after she left the alleyway. She tried to convince herself she didn't care. She didn't even really know him, did she? The person she cared about did not exist, she told herself. She was missing someone who was not real. But that didn't make it any easier to not miss the person she thought she knew.  _And how does someone miss an alien, anyway?_  If this had been four years ago, she would have thought the entire thing was crazier than it already was. Even now, she didn't know how to begin to make sense of it. The wine probably wasn't helping.

She brought her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them. She thought about all the nights they had shared together, under the stars of the Manhattan sky. She thought about Central Park, about Strawberry Fields, about City Bakery. She thought about the trips to the library, when she had brought Amy to see him at work. She thought about the way he'd read to her, taught her so many things. She thought about where he'd gone and what he was doing. And then she thought about the fact that she didn't even know his real name the entire time, and her heart broke all over again.

Suddenly, she saw a bright flash of light overhead. She lifted her head up to see what had caused it, thinking it was probably a plane landing somewhere. But when she raised her eyes, her mouth fell open at the sight. Before her, as far out as she could behold, what looked like hundreds of shooting stars were crossing from one end of the atmosphere to the other, falling like teardrops down the face of the night sky.


	33. Against The Grain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Some People Change by Montgomery Gentry

"My son." Frigga rushed down the long, golden aisle, unable to contain her joy at seeing Loki for the first time in over a year. She had wondered for a long while if she would ever see him again at all, so, throwing aside pomp and circumstance, she rushed toward him and enveloped him in a deep, long embrace. To her great surprise, he did not shy away. Instead, he returned her affection for the first time since discovering the truth of his heritage.

At the head of the room, seated on his great golden throne, Odin cleared his throat. Frigga reluctantly released Loki from her grasp, cupping his face gently before stepping aside to allow him to pass. Thor stood by her side, watching the scene unfold. He had already had several discussions with Odin about the correct course of action, but he also knew his father could just as easily change his mind, especially if Loki had any sudden change in his attitude. Then again, given what Thor had witnessed on the bridge, he suspected the latter very unlikely. It appeared to him that Loki was genuinely changed, grown and matured in ways he never knew he needed.

Loki walked the seemingly endless aisle to where Odin was seated, poised and ramrod straight as always. The last time he had made this walk, he had been in chains, fully expecting and almost hoping for his execution. At that time, he was so filled with emptiness and isolation that he probably would have welcomed death as a preferable alternative to eternity in a cell confronted with his demons. Now, he would welcome it just as easily compared to an eternity without Grace and Amy, and especially compared to knowing what he had caused them.

As he approached the throne, he felt himself kneeling in deference. He had not imagined ever kneeling before anyone again, least of all the man he had once called father. When, at last, he felt he had bowed long enough, he rose to look Odin in his one good eye. The elder demigod was silent for a long moment, studying the son he had adopted so long ago. Where Loki might once have broken the awkward silence with a barb, now he simply stared back at Odin, expecting nothing.

Then, the corner of the Allfather's mouth twitched, and he loosened his grip on his staff just slightly. "Loki," he began, "do you know why I have brought you back to Asgard?"

"I would venture a guess that it has to do with my recent actions involving that despicable, poisonous man I nearly murdered," he replied mirthlessly. When Odin did not respond, Loki continued. "If you are waiting for me to say I knew not what I was doing, you shall be waiting for eternity. I knew precisely what actions I took and their intended consequences. I regret nothing."

He stood with his head held high, waiting for his sentence. Although Thor had assured him that his punishment had ended, Loki did not believe the Allfather could be quite so moved.

"My son," Odin replied, stroking his beard, "do you think I would have allowed you to perform even the bit of magic required to create that starscape on the bridge if I believed you to be unworthy of the return of your powers?"

"But I was sent to Midgard to understand the nature and consequence of violent undertakings," Loki said, confused. "And still, I committed acts of violence just this very night."

"Indeed you did," Odin nodded. "But do you believe your previous acts of violence equate with those carried out today?"

"I do not know that there is a difference," Loki said. "My acts of violence in the past led directly to those of today. Violence begets violence. Can there truly be a difference?"

"Father, if I may," Thor chimed in, striding up the aisle toward them. Odin nodded, and Thor turned to his brother. "Loki, I, too, have been a violent man. In my youth, you will recall I was as impertinent and foolish as I could be. I changed. And so have you. And that change in our hearts is all that matters in the end."

Loki looked down at his boots, trying to reconcile what the two men were saying with the remorse and guilt sitting deep in his heart. Logically, he knew it made sense. He could not change the past, but he could be a better man for the remainder of his years. Still, he felt a nagging in his soul, a reminder that he had lost the only thing he had loved because of his own angry, foolish actions. That could not be undone, no matter what he changed. He was conflicted and unsatisfied with any answer his mind formed.

"I will admit," Odin said, thoughtfully, breaking the silence in the room, "it was not my intention for you to find your salvation through that mortal girl."

Loki's head snapped up at Grace's mention. "What do you know of her, of us?" He said it far more harshly than he'd intended and feared he had once again overstepped his bounds.

Rather than angry, Odin looked amused. "Did you think that Heimdall would not tell us that our own problem child had taken up with a woman and child of his own?"

"Loki," Frigga said, appearing as if from a mist behind him, touching him gently on the shoulder, "you said that you loved this woman. Is this true?" She looked at him with the same look that Grace gave Amy. A mother's love.

"You know it is, Mother." He did not even care anymore who might have seen his sudden display of emotion as his eyes filled with, then emptied themselves of, tears. He gestured toward one of the great windows facing the bridge, where, beyond the glass, they could all still see the faint glow of the display he had set alight on his way in. "You know it is."

"And does your love for her mean as much to you as did your quest for power?" Odin asked.

Loki could not imagine anything ever meaning as much to him as did his love for Grace, and for Amy. "More," he replied.

"Then," Odin said, "you should be able to realize that there is a distinct difference between what you did tonight and what you have done in your past. You are no fool, my son. You knew in your heart that attacking that man would reveal your true form to anyone who could see. And you did it anyway, to protect that which you love, even at the very cost of losing it."

For once in only a very few times in his life, Loki did not know what to say.

"Loki," Thor said, "I have seen the change in you, just as Father has. I have seen what love has done to your heart, to your spirit. And I know that you can do good here, for me and for Asgard. It may not be your own throne, but I would value your presence and assistance as I rule from mine."

Loki knew that Thor was offering him the chance to be what many would only dare to dream of. Advisor to the King, right hand to the throne. He knew that he would want for nothing and would have almost complete control over a great many important decisions and powers in Asgardian political and economic affairs. This was the sort of power he had sought for more than half his life, and it was being handed to him for the taking. And, in truth, he had never wanted to be King—only to be Thor's equal, and in being his brother's most trusted adviser, he finally would be.

And yet, he was dissatisfied, because one very crucial fact still hung in the back of his mind. While he remained on Asgard, his heart remained galaxies away, with a woman with a child in a small apartment, contemplating her own future.

* * *

"So, wait," Rachel said. "You're telling us that Luke was the psychopath who blew up the city and we've all been, you know, just hanging out with him all this time?"

Leah, Rachel, and Stacy had all come to Grace's apartment a week after Loki had departed, both to cheer her up and to find out exactly what happened. Vivian had only been able to extract bits and pieces of information from her daughter and knew that, as close as they were, perhaps Grace's friends might have better luck in this area of her life.

Grace sighed, exasperated. She had just spent twenty minutes at her kitchen counter, the girls gathered around it, explaining the entire situation, starting with the attack by Scott McAndrews and culminating with the revelation of Loki's actual form. She had, perhaps a bit foolishly, hoped her friends would be more concerned with the attack than with Loki. After all, the verdict still hadn't been reached, closing arguments only having been given the day before, and McAndrews was still a threat as far as Grace was concerned. Loki, on the other hand, was gone, and there was, in her opinion, no point in discussing him further. Her expression must have betrayed her frustration because Stacy immediately chimed in.

"Forget Loki for a second. Are you okay? Did you tell the cops about Scott?" Amy made a noise from behind her dollhouse in the living room, almost as if to express disgust at Scott McAndrews' name.

"Didn't have to," Grace said, sipping her coffee. "Cops picked him up about an hour later, wandering around the park. His little ankle bracelet gave him away. Apparently, he was so freaked out by what Loki did that he literally pissed himself."

The group had erupted into laughter before Leah asked, "So, when do they expect a verdict?"

"I don't know," Grace shrugged. "Probably a few days. McAndrews didn't have DiGorga put up much of a defense after that."

"Maybe he was scared Luke—I mean Loki—would keep his promise," Stacy said.

Grace stared into the cup of coffee in front of her. She had to admit, she did feel safer knowing McAndrews was both in jail and, at any rate, would be too afraid of Loki to come near her again. But one good, protective deed could not make up for the hundreds of times he had lied to her during their relationship. And besides, as she had already told herself dozens of times, he was gone. She had watched from the street, out of his sight, as something had appeared in a great colorful burst of light and dragged him off somewhere. Wherever he was, she was sure it wasn't anywhere on Earth.

"Girls, if you don't mind, I'd really rather not talk about it anymore," she said. There was a long, awkward silence before Rachel's face hardened.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No," Rachel repeated. "Grace, you cannot do this again. I won't let you. We all watched you shut yourself down the last couple years because of what happened to you. And you know that I didn't like the guy one bit when he first showed up, but he was the first thing that opened you up after all that time, and I won't let you shut down again over him. I can't tell you not to be pissed. Shit, I'd be pissed. But BE pissed. Get mad! Just don't do...this."

It was rare for Rachel to get emotional, and for a minute, no one in the room knew quite what to say. Grace knew she was right—walking around like nothing ever happened wouldn't solve anything. But she was afraid that if she let herself crack, it would be like a windshield splintering in the winter cold. It would never stop.

"Look," she finally said, "I know you guys are just worried about me. But I'm all right, I promise. I'm sad, yeah. And mad. But I've got enough on my mind to keep me busy."

She gestured to Amy, who had moved from her dollhouse to a stack of books. Most of those books had been gifts from Loki. He had been hell bent on teaching Amy to read early and Grace had been trying to keep up with the lessons. But between work, the trial, and her general exhaustion with life, she admittedly had slipped. She walked toward the spot where Amy now sat, intending to put the dollhouse away, but stopped dead in her tracks halfway into the living room.

"Grace?" Leah asked. "What is it?"

Grace didn't dare respond, as tears filled her eyes. The three women stepped in line with her and, one by one, followed her eye line to where her gaze fell.

Amy was sitting with the book of children's Norse mythology opened to the center, to a page it appeared someone had dog-eared. The text was small and difficult to read, but what was more than visible was a large, colorful drawing of a tall, slender god wearing a green cape and a giant gold helmet with what looked like antlers on it. He had black hair sticking out from under the helmet, and the greenest eyes Grace had ever seen. And, as Amy's tiny fingers stroked the image of the God lovingly, Grace's eyes fixed on the title of the page, inscribed in great bold lettering, taunting her, almost as if she could hear his laugh in her head: LOKI, GOD OF MISCHIEF.

* * *

A week later, Thor had brought Jane to Asgard, because he missed her but still wanted to keep an eye on Loki. While he did not suspect his brother was capable of any danger at that moment, that was precisely what concerned him. For much of Loki's exile, Thor knew his brother had wanted nothing more than to come home, but now that he was back—and not merely home but welcomed with open arms—he seemed entirely unhappy about it. Long ago, Thor had believed Loki incapable of love. Remorse, perhaps, but love? Love was entirely different matter of which Thor had only recently become aware himself. Loki should have taken much longer to understand that emotion as thoroughly as Thor did. He could not, at first, believe that in only a year, Loki could be such a changed man. But now, gazing up at the balcony of his brother's chambers as he was doing with Jane from the courtyard of the palace, Thor began to believe otherwise.

"Jane, I am at a loss," he said. "I do not know how to help him."

"And he hasn't spoken to anyone about her?" Jane asked, drawing her shawl around her shoulders.

He shook his head. "He won't speak to anyone about anything. He will only speak to Heimdall, when he goes to the Bifrost every day to ask how she is. The same as I once did for you."

"And how is she?"

"I do not understand what you mean," he said.

Jane gazed off into the distance as if searching for a long-forgotten memory. "Well, have you thought that maybe he's depressed for the same reasons I was when you were gone?"

"And why was that?" He gave her a half-smile, but she shot him a sharp look.

"Because I thought you'd forgotten about me, idiot. Only I didn't have a Bifrost to tell me for sure. Maybe Grace has let him go, and he knows it."

Thor considered this. Loki going to the Bifrost every day seemed to be a way of dealing with his loss, but Thor had not considered that it might be the very source of his pain. They walked along the courtyard to where Loki could not see them.

"Jane, if seeing her move on has hurt him so deeply, why would he continue to do it?"

She closed her eyes and ran a hand through her golden-brown hair. Her chest heaved slightly, and it looked to Thor as if she might cry at the memory of his absence before she opened her brown eyes and looked at him with resolve.

"Because, Thor," she said, "you might think he's been punished enough. But maybe he doesn't."


	34. Daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: My Saving Grace by Mariah Carey

Loki sat on the balcony of his room, idly creating bursts of fire with one hand and extinguishing them with strands of ice conjured with the other. He had been back on Asgard for two weeks and while he had hoped his pain would lessen with the passage of time and the return of his powers, he still found himself in a pit of melancholy. He had no interest in visiting with any of his friends, and even playing tricks on the servants proved less entertaining than he recalled. So here he sat, dozens of questions in his mind, answers for which, he knew, would never come.

He did not know how much time had passed that morning when a knock came to the great wooden doors of his chamber. He sighed heavily, suspecting it was Thor trying to get him to come out and joust again. He supposed he could have ignored it, disappeared, or even just told his brother to leave, but also suspected that he would probably return later, possibly with friends, likely more irritatingly determined. So, he waved his hand and opened the door by magic, figuring that permitting entrance did not require hospitality. He didn't even bother to turn around in his chair until he heard a strong, feminine voice that was quite clearly not Thor.

"Sulking, are we?"

He turned then, startled, but was even more shocked when he saw who was standing in his bedroom, debating whether to approach him. "Jane Foster."

She gave him a half-smile. "It's not like you to state the obvious, Loki."

"It's not like you to appear in my chamber rather than my brother's," he replied.

"Point taken," she said. "Can I join you?"

He nodded, still shaken. He was usually quite good at discerning the motives of others, but he could think of no conceivable reason for Jane to engage him in conversation. By his estimation, she did not care for him whatsoever since his attack on New York and his manipulation of her friend Doctor Selvig. In fact, the first time they met, she had slapped him clear across the face. Admittedly, he had deserved it, but it didn't exactly set the stage for a warm relationship. Still, she walked onto his balcony and took the seat next to him.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, he could stand it no longer. He gave her a hard stare, not unkind but clearly not in the mood for platitudes either. "Has my brother sent you to inquire after me?"

She shook her head. "I'm here because I know how you feel, Loki. Believe it or not."

His natural reaction was anger at the attempt to identify with his pain, but he beat it back, trying to remember the patience Grace had taught him. "And how is it that you know what I feel, let alone that you have also felt it?"

"Because," she said, as plainly as if she were discussing the weather, "I know what it's like to constantly search for the person you love. And I know what it's like to feel forgotten."

At this, his expression changed. He was no longer angry, but curious. "I do not have to search for her. I know precisely where she is." He motioned out over the balcony toward the Bifrost, and Jane followed his gaze. She knew he had been there that very afternoon.

"And where is she today?"

He looked at his hands. A ball of flames danced across his fingertips, and he held it there for a long moment before evaporating it. "That animal. His trial was concluded today. She was there." He did not need to say anything else. His face said everything.

She nodded and tilted her head. "And yet, you're here and not with her. So why is that?"

After a moment, he realized the question was not rhetorical. "Because she told me she wished to never see me again," he said, resignation in his words.

"Loki," she said, "I have known you at your worst, and now, it seems, your best. But no matter what else you've been, you've never been resigned to defeat."

"I do not deserve her. I never did."

"Is that what you're doing now? Feeling sorry for yourself?"

"I am merely doing as she asked," Loki said. "It is no longer a matter of having her for myself. But I have hurt her when I promised her I wouldn't, and I cannot abide that. I cannot forgive myself for it. I do not deserve her."

"Yeah, well, when you promised her you had no plans to leave her side, did you mean it?"

He felt like she had just slapped him again. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. Heimdall tells Thor things too, you know. She's mad at you, and she has a right to be. She doesn't know anything other than that you lied to her and then you disappeared. But if you meant what you said, then don't leave her side. Don't break another promise."

With that, she stood up and headed back into the bedroom for the chamber door. But before she left the balcony, she turned back to face him. He had leaned forward in the chair, staring out at the Asgardian sunset, toward the Bifrost in the distance.

"If you want to take her pain away, and if you want forgiveness, you need to work for it," she said plainly, with a softness that reminded him just briefly of Grace's voice. "But you can't do that from here."

* * *

Grace had arrived at the courtroom only an hour after she had gotten the call from Andrea and just moments before the jury began filing back into the room. They had, after a week of deliberations, reached a verdict. She barely had enough time to throw Amy into clothes and haul ass into the city, trying in vain to reach her parents before she left. They were at a synagogue meeting, however, unreachable by phone, and there was no time to find a sitter. The judge began to call the room to order just as Grace shuffled into the front row of the gallery just behind Andrea. Everything was moving so quickly, too quickly, and she couldn't seem to slow anything down. Amy felt heavy in her arms, and she was relieved when the judge told everyone to be seated. Besides Loki, no one from her family had ever come to court with her, despite their attempts to do so. She just hadn't felt comfortable with her parents hearing the details of her ordeal. So, it seemed natural that she was doing this on her own. She hated admitting it, but Loki had at least done this one thing for her: he had shown her how strong she could be without anyone to hold her up, both with his presence and then his absence.

She stole a glance at the defense table. Dennis DiGorga looked like the cat who ate the canary, while Scott McAndrews was barely keeping it together, from what she could tell. He was as white as he had been the night Loki had attacked him, and despite being in a pressed suit, looked somehow disheveled and sloppy. Prison had clearly not been kind to him. She found herself imagining what a different path his life should have taken, and what a waste it would be now, even if he got away with this. Despite whatever web DiGorga spun in the courtroom, and no matter the verdict, McAndrews would never be able to erase the damage to his reputation. She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

The foreman handed a piece of paper with the verdict to the bailiff, who, in turn, handed it to the judge. He looked it over, his face as expressionless as any of the jurors', and handed it back through the same chain. Andrea turned to face the jury as the judged asked McAndrews to rise in his seat. She shot Grace a quick glance, nodding, but Grace could see apprehension through the facade of determination and confidence.

As quickly as everything had seemed to move earlier, now it was as if Grace were moving underwater. Her breath seemed to slow even though it should have quickened. The bailiff walked in slow motion back to the jury, and the foreman unfolded the sheet of paper. Amy relaxed in her arms, still as could be. She could feel every hair on her arms stand up, every blink of her eyes. Suddenly, it occurred to her that this moment was the one that she should have considered the most pivotal of her life thus far. But somehow, the only thing she could think of was the night Loki had stopped that mugger in the park.

"On the count of aggravated rape in the first degree, how do you find?" The thunderous sound of the judge's voice snapped her back to the present. Scott McAndrews stared blankly ahead, hands at his sides, awaiting the jury's decision. To the outside observer, it would be difficult to believe that this was the same man who had viciously attacked Grace two weeks earlier. Now, he seemed a shell of himself, content to accept whatever fate dealt him.

She held her breath and shut her eyes as if bracing for an oncoming blow. But just before the proverbial sword fell, she heard a faint whisper at her ear, words spoken into the wind, with a lilting British accent that wasn't British at all.

 _I have no plans to leave your side_ , the voice said, just before the world turned inside out.

* * *

As she expected, her parents were waiting for her inside her apartment with bated breath when she and Amy arrived home. "Well?" Vivian said without missing a beat. "We've been trying to call you for hours!"

"I'm sorry," Grace said, wiping at the dried mascara lining her face. "My phone died, and I wasn't planning on being gone so long."

"Well, what happened? What's the verdict?"

"Honey, let her catch her breath first," Al said, but it was clear he was as nervous as Vivian. When she had thrown her bag and coat over the couch, Grace stood at attention and struggled to keep her emotions in but failed entirely when she opened her lips.

"Guilty," she sobbed, falling into her mother's open arms. Al came over, embracing them both in his great, bearish arms, and the three of them wept tears of relief. With every tear she cried, Grace felt a wave of relief wash over her. The best part of the verdict for her was that no one, especially Scott McAndrews, would ever be able to take Amy from her. She felt like her world could finally begin again, that things could return to some semblance of normalcy. And perhaps someday, she could find a way to love again, once her heart had time to heal from its recent crack. If she could survive this trial, after all, she could survive anything.

Two hours later, after Grace, Amy, and Grace's parents had finished dinner, there was a knock on the door. She expected it to be Andrea, with some final news or paperwork she needed Grace to sign. Or maybe it was Detective Rossi, congratulating her on a case well won. Whoever it was, as she walked to the front door, she realized that for the first time in two years, she didn't even feel the need to look through the peephole before opening it. But when she opened it, it wasn't Andrea standing there. And it wasn't Detective Rossi. It was a small woman, about her own height, with long, wavy brown hair and a dark, doe-eyed expression on her face. She had a long, thin scarf around her neck and wore an oversized sweater and a wool skirt with tights and boots. Grace almost laughed to herself—it was kind of like looking in a mirror in a way.

"Uh, hi, can I help you?"

"Are you Grace Lawson?"

"Um, yes," Grace replied, a bit uncomfortable. "Look, if you're a reporter, I really don't have any comment—"

"Oh, no," the woman smiled. "I'm not a reporter. I'm—my name is Jane Foster. I'm, uh, a friend of Loki's."

Grace's face fell and she heard her parents standing up behind her. "Grace, honey, we should be going," Vivian said.

"No, Mom, this woman was just leaving," Grace said, trying to shut the door in Jane's face, but Vivian stopped her, putting a hand on the door before Grace could close it.

"Gracie," Vivian said, putting her hands on her daughter's face, "the girls told me what happened with him."

"And you still want me to listen to this person? What could she possibly have to say about him that I don't already know?" She crossed her arms, and Vivian could see the defiant teenager of the past. She smiled and took her daughter's hands.

"I don't know," Vivian admitted. "I don't know how you reconcile any of this, sweetie. But what I do know is that for a year, my daughter was happy, and I want her to be happy again."

Al kissed Grace on the forehead, and Jane moved out of the way as the couple squeezed past her and headed off to their own apartment. Then, for a second, the two women stood on opposite sides of the threshold, looking at each other expectantly. Finally, Grace sighed and stepped aside, allowing Jane to enter.

Jane's eyes immediately focused on Amy, who was still seated in her highchair at the table. "Oh, is this—"

"Amy," Grace finished. "My daughter."

"I figured," Jane said. "She's beautiful."

"Thanks. Look, I don't know about you, but I could use a cup of tea," she said, trying to focus elsewhere for a moment, to get her bearings. This day had been too overwhelming for words.

"Sure," Jane said.

After she had brewed two cups of tea, Grace offered Jane a seat in the living room. She took Amy from her highchair and put her on the floor of the living room with her dollhouse, and Amy played quietly at her mother's feet while Grace looked on.

"So why are you here?" she asked.

"Look," Jane said, "I'll get right to the point. I'm not really a friend of Loki's. I'm his brother's girlfriend. Frankly, I can't stand Loki most of the time. He can be an insufferable pain in the ass, he's arrogant, and he caused a lot of damage down here. But I don't think I ever really bothered to try to understand him, which is probably true of a lot of people in his life."

Grace crossed her arms, hugging herself protectively. "What's to understand? He's a mass murderer and a liar."

"He did kill a lot of people, that's true," Jane said. "I can't deny that any more than he can. But he's not that person anymore, Grace. I don't know what you did, but you did something, because he's different. Even I can see it, and I can't stand him."

"Yeah, right," Grace said. "In case you didn't realize, mass murder is a big thing to hide from someone you claim to love."

"He hid it from you because he was ashamed of himself because he thought you couldn't love him if you knew," Jane replied. "And he hates himself for it."

"I'm sure," Grace scoffed.

"You know he's a prince, right?" Jane said, lifting her eyes to signal toward the sky. "He doesn't want for anything. He has servants, he has tons of books, Thor's even offered him a place in the kingdom's ruling body. And you want to know what he does all day? Sits in his room, just staring out at the stars, and that's when he isn't going to the Bifr—when he isn't asking the guardian of the gate to the city how you are."

Grace was genuinely surprised at this. "He asks about me?"

"He knows about the trial," Jane said. "He knows how it ended. And from what it looked like to me, he was really upset that he wasn't here today. He's accepted that he's lost you, but he can't stand that he hurt you. He's punishing himself for it in a way I've never seen."

Grace ran a hand through her hair, her eyes filling with tears. "You know, I could almost get past the trying to take over the world thing. It sounds so fucking bizarre, but I get that we all do things we regret and that it was in the past. But he lied to me, on an ongoing basis, for a whole year. I loved him, I—we were together, and he didn't even tell me his real name."

"I don't know if it'll make a difference if you know this or not, but he couldn't tell you his name. Like, he literally couldn't. When we sent him back here, for his own protection, we had to take some precautions. His mother—well, not really his mother, but the person who raised him, I guess you could call her, put a sort of spell on him. He had all his powers stripped and he was kind of forbidden from saying his name to anyone. You can imagine what people would want to do to him if they knew who he was."

Grace huffed, exasperated. She supposed she couldn't be mad at him for that, but she had no point of reference to deal with any of this. It didn't seem real. Only a few weeks ago, she had been planning a life with a man she knew as Luke Laufeyson. Now, she had to deal with the fact that he was a prince from outer space who had been under some protective spell that caused him to lie to her for a year about his identity. She wrapped her hands around her mug of tea, which was growing colder by the second, and stared into the swell of blackness.

"You guys aren't that different, you know," Jane said, breaking the silence.

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, you saw him, right? His real skin?"

"Yeah, the blue, right? What was that, anyway?"

"It's his true form. He was born into a race of Jotuns, otherwise known as frost giants. They all look like that. But Loki was small for his race, and so his birth father left him out on a rock to die, like he was nothing. Odin, the ruler of Asgard, found him and took him in and hid his true form from him, because to Asgardians, the frost giants were monsters." Grace didn't say anything, but Jane could tell she was listening intently. "Loki didn't find out about his true nature until a few years ago, and it was terrible for him. But nobody cared. Everyone was too focused on Thor. And don't get me wrong, I love Thor, but even he didn't recognize how much Loki was hurting. I think that's why Loki did what he did here, really. Because he just wanted to prove he was just as worthy of a kingdom as his birth father and his adoptive father and his brother. He was misguided, but when you feel like a monster, you act like one."

"What does that have to do with me, though?"

Jane smiled kindly. "Loki believed he was something else for most of his life—meant for a throne, Thor's brother, an Asgardian. Then he found out he was a monster. And you believed Loki was a man, for the time you knew him, only to find out he was something else."

"But even if he couldn't tell me his name, he could have told me what he was. He could have shown me. My daughter didn't seem surprised or scared by it when it happened, so I have to believe he'd turned before, in front of her. Why couldn't he have shown me what he was?"

"Grace, he didn't lie to you because he wanted to hurt you. He lied to you because he's so ashamed of what he is that he didn't think you could love him if he you knew the truth," Jane said. "And, yeah, maybe he was a monster when you met him. But the Loki you fell in love with is what he is now. You changed him into that person. So the person you loved isn't a lie, because that's who he is now."

Pain shot through Grace's heart like a bullet. "I don't know how to process this."

"You want to know why he showed you his true form when he did? He didn't even think about it. He was so intent on protecting you and your daughter that he lost control of his ability to conceal it. He didn't care about anything except keeping you both safe. He loved you both so much that he was willing to lose you to protect you."

Grace felt hot tears landing on her lap. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to get so emotional. I don't even know you."

Jane scooted closer to Grace on the couch, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Look, I can't pretend I know what happened to you. I could never tell you how to feel about all this. God knows I wouldn't know how to deal with it. But when you think about your daughter, about the happiest you've seen her, and about the happiest you've been, can you really tell me you think he lied to you through all of that?"

Grace put her head in her hands and then looked over at Amy, who was once again fixated on the book of Norse mythology Loki had given her. Ever since he'd left, Amy could not seem to tear herself away from that damn book. It was as if she thought by reading it over and over that he would suddenly appear out of it. Amy lifted her eyes and Grace noticed they were as shocking blue as her own could be.

"Mama," Amy said. And then she pointed to the page with Loki's picture on it. "Daddy."

* * *

The sun was just falling below the stars on the Asgardian horizon, creating a mixture of deep purples and pinks that crested over Loki's empty balcony. He was fastening the belt on his Midgardian pants when another knock came to his door. He rolled his eyes, annoyed at the disturbance, but walked to the door anyway and flung it open. Thor stood before him, slightly out of breath and looking hurried.

"Brother, I know what you are doing, and I've come to stop you."

Loki turned away from him and sat down on the chair next to his great oak desk, bending over to put on his shoes. "You cannot stop me, Thor. I know what I must do."

"Returning to Midgard will solve nothing now," Thor replied, trying to find the words that would make Loki listen, an ordeal under the best of circumstances, but made even worse now by Loki's determination.

"And why not? I know you believe you require me as your advisor, but I trust you can find plenty of other worthy men to take my place."

Thor hesitated. "You would honestly give up your position of power for her?"

Loki stood up, straightening his shirt and starting for the door, but Thor stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Loki sighed, frustrated. "I shudder to admit it, but Jane was right. My being here does nothing to bring me closer to her. It only creates distance in which she can forget me. I do not want to give up on her. I do not wish her to give up on me. Not without trying to prove to her that I am changed, that she has changed me. I must go back, brother. Even if it is to spend the rest of my years simply watching over her from afar, I made a promise to her. I intend to keep it."

"No, Loki," Thor said, stepping aside to allow a small figure to stand in his place. Had Loki not known better, he would have believed it to be a dream, the most perfect fantasy created inside his own mind.

"You better be glad I don't get airsick," Grace said, hair splayed over her shoulders. "That was the bumpiest ride I've ever taken."


	35. After All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: After All by Michael Buble/Bryan Adams

He blinked hard a few times to make sure he was not imagining her. His mouth hung open in stunned silence, his body longed for her, for the warmth of her touch against his skin, for the slickness of her glossy lips pressed to his. But he knew better, and once again found himself afraid to move, as though she might vaporize if he did.

"Grace?" he finally croaked out, his throat suddenly parched. "How—"

"Let's just say your brother's girlfriend is pretty persuasive," she replied, glancing back toward the hallway. Although Jane was nowhere in sight, Loki made a mental note to thank her later. Thor cleared his throat. Loki jumped and realized he was expecting an introduction.

"Oh, Grace, my brother, Thor. Thor, my—this is—Grace Lawson." He felt his face reddening, realizing he had no idea what to call her now. He was still flummoxed by this sudden turn of events and had about a hundred things to say and do and ask but no earthly idea where to begin.

Thor took Grace's hand and lifted it to his lips, smiling. "It is a pleasure to meet the lady who has so enchanted my brother, Lady Grace," he said.

She returned his smile and did a small curtsey. "Well, now it makes sense," she said. Thor raised an eyebrow. "Your brother called me the same thing before I made fun of him for it."

Thor looked at Loki with amusement, causing Loki to turn yet another shade of red. "I suspect you two have much to discuss. I shall take my leave."

"Thor, I—" Loki began. He could not find the words, and there were the faintest tears forming behind his eyes.

"No need, brother. Simply remember all you have learned, for you still have much to teach." Before Loki could reply, Thor had vanished, closing the door behind him and leaving Grace leaning against it.

For a long while, neither of them said anything. She stood with one leg bent at the knee, foot propped up against the door, looking anywhere in the room except at him. She was herself at a loss for words, surrounded by Loki's belongings for the first time, in his comfort zone. The room was expensive-looking, with high vaulted ceilings and wood-paneled walls, elaborately carved with old Norse gods and mermaids. One entire wall was bookshelves, full of thick books, across from a huge fireplace with a bearskin rug laid in front of it. On the other side of the room, behind Loki, was a set of tall doors which opened to a balcony and next to them, an extraordinarily comfortable looking bed with luxurious green drapes hanging from the posts.

He ran a hand absently through his raven hair, trying to look at her without actually looking at her. In truth, he was still terrified that this was some sort of hideously beautiful dream from which he would awaken at any moment, lonelier and in more pain than the night he had that terrible nightmare about her rape. But then, if this were a dream, would he be able to smell the scent of her shampoo as the breeze from the open doors behind him wafted past?

That same breeze seemed to awaken her from a daze because she lifted her head and looking toward the doors. As if seeking permission, she took a step in that direction and for the first time since her arrival, looked him in the eyes. He nodded, unable to find his voice to save his soul, and watched as she crept out into the open night air. She stretched her arms over her head, flexing all the muscles in her body at once. Her silhouette was illuminated by the city lights expanding out before her and he found himself awestruck. He never expected to see her again and now he was witnessing her at the most beautiful he had ever seen her—fully herself, completely aware of her body and her surroundings, shrouded in the beauty of the galaxies themselves. The stars reflected on her auburn hair, which she absently pulled back into a ponytail. Then, suddenly, she turned to face him. He hadn't realized until then that he had been staring.

He carefully walked toward her to join her in the night. He stood next to her on the balcony, facing her but not looking her in the eye. She put her hands on her hips, almost in a power stance. It was not something he had seen her do before and he realized how much stronger she was now than when he had first met her. He couldn't help but want to smile, almost proud of her for her anger toward him, for not being afraid to confront him about his deception.

"So, here's what I know," she began. "Your real name is Loki. You come from Asgard, but you were born in Jotunheim. You're about a thousand years old, which makes our age difference ridiculous. You can use magic and sometimes you turn blue. You're a really good liar, you once tried to take over my planet, and you could have killed me in the process."

His heart sank. "Why did you come if you have not forgiven me?" The question came out much more accusatory than he had intended.

She shushed him, ignoring the question entirely. "I think, in light of recent events, I get to ask all my questions first." He dropped his head, properly chastised, biting his lip. "Now, here's what I don't know. How much of it was a lie, Loki?"

He wasn't prepared for that question, at least not now, and tripped over his thoughts. "Can you be more specific?"

"I know you lied about who you are, and I'm pretty sure, thanks to Jane, that I have my head wrapped around the reasons. I still can't believe some things. Like this, this place. This place that exists that I had no idea about until tonight. But I'm talking about me and you, specifically."

"You wish, then, to know if my feelings toward you were real, or if I said what I thought would get me what I wanted?"

She crossed her arms, the wind blowing by. "Yes," she replied. "That is what I'm asking you."

It took every ounce of his self-control not to go to her, warm her. "Well, then," he said, "the answer is yes."

She sighed, slightly frustrated at the game but almost relieved for it. At least that part of him hadn't been a lie. "It wasn't a yes or no question."

"At first, perhaps, my motives were selfish. But I said nothing that I did not feel, Grace. What I felt was no lie, but what I felt, or at least part of it, was related to what I wanted." He approached closer now, taking a leap of faith that buried somewhere within her heart was still the faintest hint of compassion, of care, perhaps even love. "What I wanted, Grace, was to be with you. Once I became aware of my feelings for you, there is nothing I would not have said or done to make that happen."

She fought back tears, refusing to allow him to wear her down so easily. She turned back toward Asgard, the sparkling city beneath her. If Rachel, Stacy, and Leah could see this, they'd be the first ones telling her to forgive him, if only because she might get this view for the rest of her life. It really was magnificent, more stunning than anything she could ever have conjured in her dreams. But all the beauty in this or any other galaxy could not reassure her that she could trust him. She didn't know how she could ever again be sure, even with a million apologies and explanations. But then, as he always did, Loki took her by surprise.

"How is Amy?" His voice seemed to quake, uncertainty and fear masked by the concern of a father. For a moment, she did not respond, and he feared she would leave him wanting, unwilling to share that part of her life with him any longer. But his heart longed for words of the child he considered part of himself. Suddenly, he understood how it was that Odin and Frigga might have truly loved him after all, despite his not being their own flesh.

"That damn book," she finally whispered.

He did not hear her, however. "Pardon me?"

"That goddamn book you got her. She won't put it down."

He smiled, relieved that she had allowed Amy to keep the books he had given her. "Which one? As I recall, there were several. She is a voracious reader, our—your daughter."

"The one with your picture in it," Grace replied, still staring at the stars. She began to count them, trying to keep her voice steady. "The stupid drawing of you in your—"

As she turned back to face him, her voice cracked. She watched as his clothing transformed before her eyes into the exact replica of the suit he wore in the book, right down to the great horned helmet. "You look—"

"Princely?" he suggested.

"Ridiculous," she said, stifling a laugh. A look of feigned annoyance played across his face, but he was content. At least she was smiling. "I'm sorry, I'm just so used to seeing you dressed normally."

"Here, this is normal,'" he replied.

"Fair enough," she said. Then, curious, she found herself walking toward him, her legs moving on their own accord. "Can I—"

"Of course," he said, without even needing to ask what she wanted to do.

She crept closer as though they had never touched before, and Loki stiffened so that he would not take her in his arms and hold her to him, armor be damned. She came toward him slowly, each step feeling like a year in his life until she stood just before him, brow furrowed, taking him in from top to bottom and back again. She placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling the top of his soft cotton cape, running them down his arms over the hard leather and metal bindings encircling them. She felt entranced, trying to force herself to believe what was before her eyes. Then, she raised her chin to look at him, tilting her head just so. Her eyes penetrated him, searching for something unknown. She stayed that way for a long while, and he dared not move or speak a word. He wanted to absorb every one of her lines, her beautiful features under the Asgardian sky, commit them to memory in case this was the last he would ever see of her.

She swallowed hard. And then she suddenly walked past him, off the balcony, and headed back toward the chamber door. To have come this close and to lose her again was more than he could take. He felt he might literally shatter before her. But as she put a hand on the door handle, she looked back at him.

"I wanted to be mad at you forever, Loki. And in some ways, I still am. You lied to me, and you hurt me, and it's going to take a while before I can really forgive that."

He nodded sadly, bracing himself for a final goodbye. He turned back toward the balcony, unable to watch her walk out his life again. He heard the door open and shut behind him. He didn't move, just continued to stare at the sky. Perhaps if he begged hard enough, The Other would come for him, kill him as he promised. It would hurt so much less than this.

A few minutes passed.

Suddenly, he heard the door open again. He assumed it was Thor, coming to comfort him. He didn't even have the heart or energy to turn around and tell him to leave. But then, a voice he knew better than his own called out to him. "If I'm going demand honesty, I need to give it to you, too."

He whipped around, his cape almost hitting him in the face with the force of his turn. Grace was standing just inside the door, tears streaming down her face, Jane and Thor behind her. And in her arms was Amy, looking all around, bright-eyed and curious, until she locked eyes with Loki. Then, she struggled against her mother, all but begging to be put down.

"Amy," he said, his voice cracking.

Grace blinked and more tears fell, and she kissed Amy on her temple. "So, in all honesty, your daughter misses you. I said it once, and I'll say it again. You're her father. You always have been. I could never hate her father."

With that, she set Amy down, and the little girl immediately toddled off to Loki, who bent down to receive her. When he wrapped her in his arms, his cape billowing in the wind, he could hardly believe the elation overtaking his body. The little girl glowed at him, hands wrapping around his neck and over his cape, and it was all he could do not to let himself cry when Amy repeated the word "daddy" over and over. Grace wrapped her arms around herself and looked back at Thor and Jane, who were standing in the doorway still. Jane looked close to tears herself, and Thor was beaming. She mouthed a thank you to them, and they both nodded, taking their leave and shutting the door behind them once again.

She looked out at him, who was holding Amy close and whispering something to her which Grace could not quite make out. His hair fell across his face carelessly, and Amy laughed as it tickled her nose. If Grace had any doubt about her decision, it fell away when she saw the happiness on her daughter's face as he cuddled her, obviously the first time he had felt anything resembling joy in weeks. Jane was right: he might have once been a monster, but this? This could not be a lie.

She stepped toward the two of them carefully, not wanting to interrupt the moment, but Loki saw her coming and rose to his feet, Amy still pressed to his chest. His chest felt heavy and light all at once, and a large lump formed in his throat. His silver tongue turned to lead, and he could scarcely think what to say to her.

"Grace, I—I know I am not worthy of your forgiveness. I am aware that I have destroyed your trust in me, and that I shall never be able to earn it again. But for this, for her..." he trailed off, and nodded toward Amy, who, well past her bedtime, was falling asleep against his frame.

Grace shook her head. "There's something else I need to ask you," she said. "And you'd better not lie to me this time."

"Anything," he said. She took his free hand and put it around her waist. Before he knew what was happening, she put her hand around his neck and brought his lips to hers, a kiss full of so much passion and purity that it could have sent sparks into the sky, lighting the Nine Realms for days. He had never tasted anything so sweet in his life but felt anything but empty when she pulled away and smirked.

"Do you think you could get used to living on Earth?" Her eyes flashed a brilliant blue, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. "Well, I know it's Asgard and all, but I bet it'd be hard to find good hot chocolate up here."

And for the first time in nearly a century, Loki Laufeyson, once all deception and rage, laughed with a heart as light as the wind and as free as the truth.


End file.
